Its all about the return, I tell myself. Return. Return. Return. My goal was thirty minute (at the least) pieces in thirty days. I somehow stopped at day seventeen and let a whole bunch of days go by. My internal dialogue, “You’re too hard on yourself. So what if a few days float, roll, fly by. So what! So what! So what! But then ‘So what’ turns into eleven days, turns into forcing myself back in my seat; turns into me here, right now, Sunday morning before a zoom meeting pounding the keys to get myself floating, rolling, flying back into the habit. Its all about the return. And voila returning to the page, to the commitment, to habituating the writing practice so I can find myself back to what I love deep, writing. Oh the irony last piece I wrote was called, ‘the fucked up beat of distraction.’ Come back. Come back. Return! Over and over return.