Scenes from my so-called life

I sit quietly at the kitchen counter, mulling over my coffee. I tap the side of the mug with my fingers, hoping the clinking rhythm will calm my restless thoughts. “Hey,” a female voice says softly, breaking my train of thought. I look at the direction where the voice came from. I see Celine, leaning on the bannister, a worried expression on her face. “Hey, you,” I answer, and give her a smile for good measure, however weak. She smiles back and gently starts toward me. She pulls out the chair across me and slowly settles herself down. I watch her, keeping silent. Her eyes lock onto mine. I can see their tender concern. My breathing slows and I can feel my chest tighten, as if my heart is being squeezed. I continue to look at her face, and her eyes, wondering if she can see the resignation in mine. I want to break the silence somehow, but before I can, she reaches for my hand and she starts caressing my arm. I bite my lip as I try to hold back any tears that may...

I've gotten rusty. Before, writing came as second nature, almost like breathing even. But now, I'm often stumped. I don't know if it's because I am bursting with ideas that I don't know what to write about first or because I've allowed myself to become stagnant by not writing for long periods of time. Or maybe it's because I've grown used to writing articles for work. That's not exactly as fulfilling as writing to express myself or writing to be creative. All excuses, I know. I have got to get myself back and I guess starting this blog is a step towards that direction. Write, write, write and write some more. That ought to be my way to go. I have allowed myself to slip. It's time to climb back up. A teacher of mine, who has always taught me things I needed to learn, once told me that to be a good writer I must have the discipline to write every day. I must set aside time each day to write anything, even if I don't feel like it. By doi...