I started writing again. Hello, world. A cliché. I am guilty. Guilty of not writing, producing, ideating in public. Mea culpa, open admissions, words worthy of an eye-roll emoji. After all, here I am writing.

Why, when I didn’t write, did I feel so empty? Why didn’t I fill the emptiness with writing? Here’s a trite answer: nausea. I read careless people using hurtful and slanderous words. I could’ve filled my small internet nook with subtle, thoughtful, and artistic expressions. Instead, I started hating words; I am ashamed to admit evil words pummeled me.

Offline was a different story. Cushioned by loving relationships, words made sense. Guarded against internet blaspheme (everything is someone’s blaspheme online), words kept their beauty. The internet, however, is another story. It is a kind of public speaking. Now, public speaking and writing have similar stressors. Still, words need not work as hard at public speaking engagements because context, timbre, and tone labor in the background, not so with letters on a page.

Each syllable needs to salivate the readers’ appetite. No cheap tricks like overconfident screaming or incessant talking are allowed; they are quickly unmasked as a shallow dribble. Sure, clickbait articles exist, but one emotes them; they aren’t read. Raw and raging sewer of confirmation bias packaged in sameness, anger, and thoughtlessness; easy sells with high-interest rates with guaranteed future default on their loans.

Well-written articles are like savings accounts; sure, interest rates aren’t great, but you save fragile future value; or are words more like venture capitalism? High risk with potentially higher returns. Over and over, you attempt publicly investing your slowly accumulated style and substance, looking for a unicorn when words resonate between people. Mere words are harmoniously vibrating.

Wow, what a rambling “introductory” post. An attempt, words which are awaiting resonance with others, pending a unicorn. In short, an essay. In this way, words mirror life, really. How much do we risk getting out of bed in the morning? The deep “may-be” of every day lies open before us. Each object’s writing runs out before it, announcing its encounters with us only after interacting with it. At play always is how we co-write our day.

That’s why I’m back because I’m writing anyway, in public, all the time. I might as well write. Even if no one reads, I could say I went looking for a unicorn one day at a time.