All the drafts have been either refined and posted or ruthlessly deleted. The emptiness of the drafts folder is scary. When the mind was blank there was always this folder to turn to and you could always pick out a draft and make tiny changes and entertain yourself in the false comfort that you were writing something. I never used to save drafts. If I did not complete writing something, I used to trash it. Recently, I have been saving drafts – for those times when I would come here empty-handed and gloomy.
The drafts were a faint reminder of a bygone inspiration and were reluctantly agreeable to being remixed like the re-hashed work of an outmoded music director. Now, even that thin thread has disappeared.
But, not the need to write. That has not disappeared. It nags. And even though the tinsel of readership statistics and social influence has long been discarded as worthless, the need to write is strong as it was, if not stronger. Its character has changed slightly, though. The urge is not to write more, but to write better. And the better seeks a dive deeper than the words that are written.
My birthday is coming, says my blog. Give me the gift of being myself, once again, for ever.