Can one be a writer if one doesn't write? Is writing like riding a bicycle? Does it languish in the darkened solitude, gathering dust and building rust for so long while the person who once gave it life whittles away their time with other things? When they finally return are they heartbroken to find their time away has left something once so relaxing and enjoyable cold and bitter? Gears that once moved fluidly now rusted and stiff, bearing the scars of their abandonment?

Stiff hands work to remember their old dance, clearing the cobwebs from the gears, the spokes. Rusty and broken parts are lubricated and replaced as needed. It is no longer the same vehicle it once was. Though it functions again, it will take time for things to come together. Time and work. It will never be the same as it was before. But it doesn't need to be.