Sometimes it's the first line that's the hardest.
Sometimes I stutter and can't get the words out, some days it just spews out of my head and onto the page. There are so many thoughts that it's hard to know where to begin. It's the special few that provide the nourishment, the encouragement and the motivation to keep going forward. Without kindred spirits and people to share your stories with, are they ever more than just restless murmurs inside your head?
You can stop the thought process.
Creation can be elusive.
Reflect; how much has changed in a year?
The therapists say be retrospective; at what point did things change? Sometimes there isn't a point, a milemarker; can it be constant? I used to be a young man and now I have developed, grown, 'matured', but have I evolved? Am I still chasing those boyish adolescent dreams or is this my lifelong path? I look back now and feel detached, like it was someone else committing the sins and paying the pennance, yet I know every story and could sing you every line.
At what point does repetition replace conviction?