After NaNoWriMo I'm left with this desire to create. I'm also left with an unquenchable hunger I can't quite place. Something lower than stomach. But nothing seems to fill it up. So I look around at old parts of my life and the things that surround me and try to stitch something together. It feels like summer, out of place in this snow, with all the fear and dread of winter approaching at the edges of everything. And without an explanation, it's left to grow and become something else. Something confusing and dangerous and possibly animal. The glances are more than that. The conversations are beacons I'm not supposed to see.
And I start letter after letter I never intend to send, trying to say something to someone that might mean something. That might take me somewhere. But I'm left in this dead end, unable to turn around. My own private cul-de-sac. An eternity of clapboard and lawn gnomes and the trappings of a home. A life growing up around me. Maybe it's just thirty, finally claiming its piece of my heart and mind. Maybe it's wanderlust, emphasis on the latter half. Maybe it's just plain old boredom trying to seem like something else, something profound and healthy, something powerful enough to move me past whatever this feeling is.
Whatever it is, it's left me restless and craving, and writing something here for who-knows to see. Probably no one. For the five-hundred and fiftieth time.