Bueller? Bueller?

I don't know what I expected when I opened this page. Maybe I thought clicking the "post new blog" button was like magic. "Abracadabra! Now you have thoughts and wise ones, at that; things the blogosphere needs to know.

In reality, signing back in to this account is like climbing up into an old, dingy attic. I pull the string to the light, but it only breaks in two, eroded after what seems like eons of neglect. I try again, but the bulb was burnt out any way. So I look around at the inhabitants, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkest, helped a little by a sliver of light streaming through a cracked window. There are cobwebs in the corners, inches of dust blanket the sheet-covered mounds of relics and trinkets; boxes filled with treasures, some worth millions, some worth more but only to a certain person's heart. They loom in the diminutive room like ghosts of old, squatters of a time gone by.

I'm not sure what this all means. I'm not sure if I should dig in and explore, or if it's all too much work. Maybe I should let the attic be. Maybe I should let the past stay in the past. But maybe, just maybe, something from the past can help the future. Maybe there's more reasons than I know to keep all of these things packed away for so long. Maybe I ought to explore them, drinking in each beautifully intricate detail.

I don't know the answers to this yet. I can't promise I'll stay. I can't promise I'll dig in. But I can tell you that, for the moment at least, I am here.