Writing with vengeance

Since my last posting, as a marsupially-inclined writer, writing has been quite the opposite. Neither slow, nor meditative. Every writer has an excuse not to write. Writer's block. Life circumstances. Illness. Time. I fall very near the writer's excuse tree.

I have moved. By this I don't mean, from street to street, nor from city to city, I mean, I have moved across the globe, crossing the Atlantic. Indeed, it would have been more interesting if I had sailed across the globe, writing and eating fish in my free time, ala Life of Pi, but unfortunately, nothing as interesting as that.

Moving. Its good to be moving, mobility is life. After six weeks, perhaps I am more settled, but not quite as before. In six weeks, I have words teeming in my head with vengeance. They must appear, they must be written.

A traveller, a rambler, a writer: mobility of movement, of words, of thought, of mind.