I've been doing so much writing lately. Or, if not writing, talking. Communicating, connecting, creating shapes of words to form concepts, images, thoughts, greetings, farewells, queries, assertions, arguments. Words, words, words, words. And all I really want to be doing is writing here, talking here, thinking, evaluating, sharing *here*, in this space. When I finally sit down to do just that, though, I can't find anything to say. All my words, all the words that clamor for release, are diverted into a hundred other places.

A wiki/journal for my internship. Emails to friends. Phone calls to friends. Sunday brunch with my family. Conversations with coworkers. Questions for my fellow library workers. Sales to customers. Comments on journals and walls. Stamping applications. And b_etween, which gets written in every day when power outages, hectic work schedules, family visits, and deaths of favorite celebrities don't interfere.

So what's left to think, to say, to express? I'm word-weary. That, I can say here. And that I miss writing here, just for myself, just for what waits in myself to be spoken. To be heard.

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