Writing and friends and things.

I wrote my first short story today in years. I can’t even remember the last time I was able to craft something so much as resembling a “story”. I wonder what ever happened to the characters I created, the fictional lives I made or broke. When they’re gone and over and go unseen, unwritten or unexamined, there they stay.

I wonder what happened to my friends who wrote stories – are they still writing stories? Does writing not mean the same thing anymore as it did during undergrad years, as it does me? Have they moved on from lofty writerly pursuit ambitions in lieu of real-life practicality? I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter anyways. The one thing that bonded us was the one thing that, once deviated, broke us all apart.


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