It’s been more than a year now that I haven’t written anything on my blog beyond a poem, few weeks ago. And it’s not that I havent felt like writing, not felt the urge to open up old scars on paper like a foil fencer battling  through the maze of its expereiences, making its way to its core in order to catch a glimpse of its inner realities.

I couldn’t attribute the break to a lack of ‘material’ either, nor to a lack of inspiration or to the scarcity of ‘writable’ moments worth immortalizing on paper, quite the contrary. There were actually many times I felt like taking a step back from the pace of life to sit down over a cup of coffee scribble down an idea, a moment, a thought, a memory, a lesson or just a feeling. Interestingly enough, so many changes happened in my life this year that, if I had to choose one of the many years I managed to survive on earth, 2017 would probably be one of those milestone ones, when so many significant events happened that it would be easy for me to look back at my life and say: ‘Ah, 2017 was a special one indeed’.

And yet, despite the urge to write and the many moments encapsulated in my mind that were best suited once manifested into curves and dots, I just didn’t. And when I think about it, it felt as if I was somehow waiting for something to happen. As if the presence or absence of something was preventing me from writing.

Today I realized what it was. Although I feel like I had always known it to be an integral part of a life of writing, I never knew it would be so critical.

The answer was solitude. Plain and simple.