end.

I want to write the "I'm so overdue and there is so much to catch up on!" post.  OR, "I have to start writing again" post.  OR, "Wow, so much has happened!" post.  In reality, it has. 

But I have not been able to put it into words.  For almost two years now. 

...

Leaves rustle.  Dirt becomes undone and rocks removed or re-moved.  There is sun and sweat and knees and hair and grit and determination.  And thin air.  It took returning to a place with thin air and crazy people and flesh wounds and dehydration and suffocation and sickness to catalyze me to write this right now.  The very fact that I can even put any of this into words again is a huge step, I suppose. 

Why is it that the most focused, gifted of us die early and untimely, usually by our own hands at the mercy of our own, silent suffering? 

It's almost like we focus so much of our efforts into being who we are that the general public and loved ones just think that we are weird and quirky and discount us as such.  We are Thunderstorms.  We are bursts of energy, demanded to be felt, built over time, ignored by most until we have to produce the loudest and most dramatic sound until suddenly we are important because we are a threat. 

I've been told in the past that when one falls it's important to do it as loud as possible.  I don't know if that applies here. 

...

Think.