i think i don't like blogging any more.

mostly because i don't seem to have much to say, even though stuff keeps happening in my life. the last three weeks have been worth months of posts. but see, nothing made its way to the written word.

then, i used to find the idea of 'readers' appealing. the anonymity, the freedom, the range. not so much now. i'd rather have a real person or two who i can tell about how my shoes tore, or how the dutch government and i had a little difference of opinion this evening. how the contents of my wallet lost 3 weeks ago turned up in the post. and other such little mundanities.

most importantly, the wendigo is fading from me. somewhere on the flight from johannesburg to london, or possibly during one of the long lovely days of comfort and peace, or even before that, when in delhi i rediscovered the joys of having real people in my life, she left me. and now, though i'm back where i found her, where i grew to need her, she seems to evade me. i'm trying to fill her place - at work, among friends, on the internet. there are glimpses, now and again, on the now rare wild walks late at night, alone and striding. it was awful good to know her. but i'm completely lost about if i want to be her anymore. she was a better writer, at any rate.