Thursday, December 3, 2015

Re-ignitiolistitude Of Buzz

    Ah, the soft buzz of re-ignition.

    I am as an abandoned sex toy rescued from a down-filled box in a duckling’s attic.

    Stirring to life, with lights flashing minimally, and batteries hanging from my underside by Sellotape, I presume to do battle once more with the orifices of evil, the bulbous extremities of naughtiness.

    The strange thing about being away from pursuits familiar for even a short time is how you return as a forever morphed symbiotic wonder.

    Pre-halloween 2015 seems like a ludicrously long time ago, and had I stuck to my weekly blogging schedule, who knows what incremental shifts would have taken place online.

    But I missed them all in this bloggorific capacity, subsumed them into my non-blogular life, and walked on as a creature momentarily distracted by humungous cucumbers into channelling energies elsewhere.

    This is the most peculiar thing about now.

    In my youth, I morphed from month to month — of course I did.  And my diaries record the shocking pace of the change.  Colossal events I recall from a distance, I can now re-examine, and often when I do I find they took place much closer together than memory alone dredges into view.

    But there is something about the end of 2015 which has a curious pace for me, like I am experiencing a growing pain instead of the succession of gnawing rots to which I have been accustomed since turning 30.



    So I gaze back over my own blogroll today in a state of mesmerised sub-aghast/aglee at the pace and pulse of morphitude cast under continuity’s lens, and step into the breach before Christmas as a salmon tossed back into the water by marauding ogres with spears.

    I do so love an adventure.


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