The loss of someone very dear to me recently has gotten my mind wandering in directions where it's not ventured for an awfully long time, and somewhere in that endless loop of conscious and unconscious musing I've come to the conclusion that really the only proper way for me to process all this emotion is to try to place it all along a coherent line of thought and see if that helps. I used to love writing with a fervor that was almost consuming, so much so that some nights I had to force myself to stop and just go to bed, but for years now it's just been me staring at an empty page, wishing I could get back that love and near necessity for what used to be my greatest solace.
Writing is a tangible manifestation of thought generated in a language. But in a way it's also a language all its own, equal to all others in that if not practiced, the ability to use it properly simply slips to the recesses of memory, ever-further, until one day it simply ceases to exist at all. And so perhaps the best way to make sure I don't lose it altogether is just to force myself to sit down and write. Write about all those things which bear a second of pause, and all the things which may seem trivial and passing but that undoubtedly make up the fabric of life, of change, of the eternal march forward. Because indeed, nothing is absolutely; everything changes. But if it's ever possible to clutch a few of the pieces for even just a second longer, to appreciate for that moment what they mean in the larger scheme, then it's undoubtedly worth a try.