dear god...

last time i wrote on this was when I was still homeless, sleeping on someone's living room floor with a view of the entire bay... things have changed, and I don't know why I'm writing on this because no one reads it anyways. We've all drifted away from that idea of connectedness we once shared. Life got in the way. Now life is returning to me in the little pieces of half days here and there, one day off, shafts of sunlight through windows and the slow falling of dust sifting between parcels of shadow and light. I stare at all my art supplies like I'm reacquainting myself with something that was once more a part of me, and I can't help but smiling. and the more I look at the charcoals and pastels the more I want to read and write, to create again. I want to simultaneously read poetry, write fiction, and draw until the world is the color and shape of my dreams...