organized letters

I used to write. Plays, short stories, vignettes, poetry, and the like. I used to feel inspired. Now, I reread the words and try to remember the inspiration.

Tonight, I found a play I started writing more than two years ago. It's typical of my writing -- bereft of literary quality, but saturated with cathartic qualities. However, there was something different about this play (or, as the case may be, underdeveloped pieces of a play that will forever be unfinished). Each one of the scenes was based on an event that made me cry.

As someone who has spent years learning to hide emotion, I tend to think that crying is a rare thing in my life. But apparently not.

Funny what you can learn from yourself. . . (Such as the fact that time changes little. My outline for the unwritten portions of the play ended with: "Being lonely--not knowing what family is or where home is--good conclusion, in the middle of all the chaos on stage that is my life, being lost and confused and broken as a conclusion." My tendency to construct run-on, illogical sentences has always been a strength.)