I've taken a hiatus from writting.
I could blame it on the mounds and mounds of donated clothes that I have no desire to ever see again, but that's not quite it.
It seems that in times of transition, that middle period between coming and going, when I am actually settled, I lose all desire to write. There's no creative spark, no ideas, and no adjectives.
And then there are those days where I wake up and it takes every fiber in my being to keep a pen out of my hand. Usually those days are full of adventure and excitement. Not full of folding and sorting clothes.
I live for adventure. The kind that takes your breath away and makes every little hair stand on end. The kind that pushes you past every last one of your comfortable boundaries.
The adventure bug bit again. For some reason, a year later, I'm back to dreaming of Portugal with interuptions every now and then from Eagle Pass Border Patrol. What happened to being content where I was?