It occurred to me this evening that I don't know where this story ends. Perhaps I thought I did? I thought this story ended when I came out of the Middle East in 2009. Perhaps I felt that I had shared enough and bared enough to last me for a while.
Yes, I took a step back from public writing, but I dare say that the act of doing so did not render me more silently contemplative. If anything I simply stopped writing for pleasure altogether. Instead, I wrote for a living and got paid for making word that were ultimately mine but not mine to claim. When I was done writing, someone else made a lot of money from the fact that I signed away my words so that I could eat and afford the gas in my car while I wrote to satisfy the requirements for the far-reaching precipice to which my future was clinging. I wrote for the sake of finishing my doctoral degree and for survival. I wrote and wrote...and wrote.
And so, here I am again, old friend. Back to this blog, to this persona that has always been me and not me. Back to the beginning of the place where the excess lexicon of a small part of my inner realm came to be burped. Hello again, old friend, I have missed you.
If it is trite to rehash the past few years, if anything, I will keep it short and sweet:
I am now a doctor of philosophy. And it is weird.
I am now in control of my finances. And that, too, is...weird.
Not that I was ever all that irresponsible before, but I actually have real health insurance now...
I am happy.
I am to be wed two months.
So perhaps this is the beginning. Again.