I used to write more.
Not in the realm of the blogosphere, but in life. The written word was for me a release... I would get home from school every day, angst-ridden as only a teenage boy can be and write for fifteen minutes, thirty... or even for an hour every day. Some of these words flowed as personal expressions, emotional diatribes, wonders and curiosities but much of it was simply an expression of my love affair with words and imagery.
A friend of mine reminded me of this recently when he asked what came of it all, whether those scattered musings and rambling had ever amounted to more than a staccato rhythm of keystrokes in my ears. Another friend reminded me, quite by accident, that I still hold that passion within me, however rarely I show it.
My first love was almost certainly an infatuation with words. I would read cereal boxes at breakfast, every panel, every word, as hungry for more as I was for a second bowl. Hungrier most likely. I wanted to read every one of them.
And so, Chasing Boston may undergo a bit of a shift. This is still where the interested reader will find my thoughts and observations on my progress as a runner and triathlete... but here too will the reader find brief observations on the state of my soul, rendered perhaps in a more colorful palette than I have thus far embraced.
To my friends who have helped me rediscover something within myself without ever intending to... one by helping me remember, the other by inspiring me... Thank You for bringing the sunlight back...
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