There is always another story....

Why are first posts always so hard to write?

This is hardly my first blog post, I've been on blogger for a long, long time (before it was ever blogger, or anything to do with google): and as such have failed dismally to import my older blog here as I'm utterly locked out. No matter. Sometimes it's time to start again.
I'm a very different person than I was ten years ago (ten!) when I first started writing on the internet, it's time to start a new page in my story.

Lately I've been finding it hard to write. Online yes, but also on paper. I don't know why it has been so hard, writing had always been my lifeline but the words did not come. Even music sounded hollow to me at times. I set up the blog to start writing at the beginning of this year, but still the words didn't come. It was still winter.

Now I feel as if I'm waking up from a long sleep, waking up with the spring. The things I thought I'd lost are re-awakening.

Perhaps it's the spring, perhaps it's having a wonderful weekend with close friends filled with laughter and love, but the ice has melted and the words are free to flow now.
Here's to new beginnings, and here's to W.H.Auden.

At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there’s never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.