It is curious how inertia weighs so heavily, how such a non-exerting phenomena, a mere nothingness, can extract precisely its opposite. Energia - motion and potential - gently seeps into and takes residence in our psyche during fallow periods. It is contrary, if I recall, to the lightness that Calvino and Kundera address.

Downtheinkwell takes pause and considers the value of interjection (Latin interjectus, from inter- & jacere to throw), in particular these meagre, everyday offerings that we write for no-one:

Before I made the decision to return to my blog I was questioning why I needed it and what I had to say. I often feel this is a vain and empty pursuit. My writing never pleases me, a condition I know most writers suffer from. But why post it here? What do I hope to achieve? Right now it is simply a means of motivation. I feel as if I have to post so I have to find something to write about.

I venture this: Sometimes I am in misery to explain why I write on the blogosphere, or at all. At times, this loss is compounded when the single, over-arching reason that held firm dissipates into manifold reasons; more often, when reasons turn to justifications, the urgency for fixtures and the one single certainty turns upon itself and collapses its very beginnings. In its quest, this impetus for certainty is self-eroding, accelerating its demise.

More difficulties arise when the framework - our constellation - keeps re-configuring itself, shifting as the manifold of stellular reason surge and collapse.

Nonetheless, I hold one thing and that is that I am an impoverished soul for neglecting this little space that I carve. A day, a week without writing means a day, a week without self, without creation.