IT COMES BACK, said the Sleer, with satisfaction in its smoke-tendril voice. IT ALWAYS COMES BACK.
- The Graveyard Book, Neil Gaiman.

And so it is, as it always is. Maybe I should never have stopped. Part of the fear of blogging is just being afraid of being seen as self-important and self-absorbed, writing about how many times you brushed your teeth, how many times up and down, how many times to the side. But maybe it was just being silly.

Of course it's nice to make the excuse of Facebook and Twitter doing it all for you. First from Facebook giving a more complete picture of your life, and then Twitter basically being micro-blogging. But then again words are the craft, the clay in my thickening, callousing fingers, and if I don't enjoy writing, I may as well bind my fingers and hands together and form big meaty clubs. I think you can still eat with those so maybe it won't be too bad. (A lot harder to pick your nose, though.)

I'd almost forgotten how liberating it was to blog.

I suppose it's somehow odd that the more connected the world becomes, the more of our lives we share, the more afraid we are to live in it. The world's changed so much in the past 4 years. NS this, and Uni that, but the world's changed ever so much. Carving out your 15 megabytes of fame on the internet just gets more and more intimidating. But somehow, like the San Francisco Gold Rush, even though you've missed it by years and years, it's not too late to stake your claim.