How many days should I, can I, come back here and explain to myself why I'm not writing any more? A friend asked me the other day, before I could answer Rachel repeated an explanation that I have voiced before: happiness makes for poor writing. Complications prevent me from reinforcing that again as a complete truth, but sure, that's part of it. I have stopped going through pictures that I've taken. That must also be a part of it, or a corollary effect of the same feeling of exhaustion towards life. I've let go of my desire to tell stories about my life. Perhaps if I look through some pictures some little hint of an impulse will come back to me.
When I opened up this page I noted that the only page views I had gotten recently were for posts that seemed to be about sex. Titles like "Define - pornology" , "Because I Like My Sugar Sweet" , "Slut Walk" , "I Want the Hobo to Watch" , "Moist Panties" , "Traditional Fetish Objects"... Eight views of each page, all at the same time, making it seem as if I had a sudden surge in readership. Spider bots, web crawlers, doing their methodical documenting of imaginary worlds, of the words that hang and linger for the picking.
Nope; I tried.
Just pictures of us the last time we went to the beach, or rather, the time before last.