I've been so busy lately, it's actually been some time since I've painted or written any poetry. I last wrote in December, penning "Heart String". Some months ago I had the inspiration to write, but not the time, and now months later I wonder if I still have the inspiration to write that poem, or if it is forever lost. I still have the emotions ingrained in my heart, but I don't know if I have the words for it anymore. I haven't had much time for reading either. I've read very little of Keats in the past six months, though ironically I picked up his book of poetry a few days ago and began reading again. (I'm still working on getting through "Endymion".) His words are often definitions of my life, of my being. “I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” One day I will paint those three summer days.
