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I apologize for the silence. A man cannot write – a man cannot even think of writing – when he finds himself swallowed by more practical duties. I apologize too if it seems my notion of writing is the opposite of practical. To me, it isn’t. The life of letters is sensible, and its economy depends on the successful exploration and expression of the interior life. Isn’t there anything more practical than expression? Isn’t there anything more human and necessary than to utter and write the words of our intangible inmost thoughts?

So when I mean I am drowning in more practical duties, I only mean the realities of modern survival must be attended to with immediacy. Work, in all its forms, demands complete focus and attention especially when one is struggling to be financially independent. While I dream creativity could (should) put food on the table, the reality is I must sacrifice time that could be spent dabbling in pretensions and profundities, working a forty-five hour a week job, so I could physically live. It isn’t made any easier the people I work with do not exactly believe in the elusive work-life balance concept.


The work I do now, compared to the work I did eight months ago, is far more humbling and transformative. It requires a tremendous ability to stay focused, manage time, weigh priorities, and be indifferent to negative critiques. You need to be physically and emotionally tough to quite simply, stay in the game, and stay employed. So between my earnest desire to write again, to spend hours locked in my room arranging and rearranging words, listening to the poetry I am writing in my head; and getting a mouthful from a supervisor, or struggling to satisfying superficial or unreasonable demands, it is the latter which requires my whole body and spirit, and yes, even my affection.

So when will I write again? I’d like to think the sacrifices I’m making will reward me the finances to afford time away from reality. I’d like to think the long hours I’m putting into my work would build a sturdier character essential when endeavouring into the mysterious life of letters. For anything so human, so basic, and so essential, comes with the price. Maybe when I have found myself polished but toughened, I will not even fear purchasing the luxuries of time.