The old bug

I've got the old bug again. It comes every now and then and despite my best attempts at ignoring it and pretending it'll pass, it proceeds to bite and nag and linger until I've got no choice and end up here. It's a strange thing, the urge to write, but it returns like an old lover and for a short while I'm almost convinced she'll stay this time.

Probably has something to do with the fact I've been reading a lot more. Well, not a lot. But more than before, which is to say more than none. I go through fits where I can't tear my eyes from a page, then go cold and dormant for months until the bug comes back. I guess it's true about fire burning hot then sputtering out. It's my nature for most things.

It's tricky, though. I listen to the radio a lot and hear a lot of the same music spread out over eight to ten hours every day before I put on my own stuff off of the airwaves back home. It's strange how you hear songs you've heard five, ten, dozens of times and despite knowing all the words and singing along while doing 80 on the highway and turning the dial up to drown out the sounds of racing engine and roaring winds but you never quite understood or heard the words as they sound to you when you're listening to things below the wavelength. It isn't looking for meaning or anything, it just pops like a Magic Eye puzzle and then you're off in another world, a familiar soundtrack to something you never considered before and you chase it down and through and around, letting music throw together possibilities and concepts and ideas and what-ifs. It tends to escalate quickly and then the song is over and you don't really hear the next one because you're stuck on something else.

I've been thinking a lot about what to write lately. I've got ideas but none of them have shape or form right now, they're just floating through the aether and waiting to be picked like clouds from the sky. Ephemeral but real but dreamlike.