The elevated streetlights flicker and sway high above the treetops, pushing back the envelope of darkness on this unusually warm fall night–my only companions on this night of nights. A car engine fades into the distance, swaddled by the sounds of the machines that hum nearby, as I sit here and wonder about what is to come during my next 30 years of life.

The first 30 have served me well, the peaks and troughs coming and going as often as the tides. Time has passed, and the ground has settled a bit beneath me, giving me purchase and the ability to dwell on the days of future past. The days seem to roll by much more quickly now as we get older. Our busy lives taking full reign, shoving aside the lazy loafing of our teenage years, eating up every second of every day, and we wonder where the time goes.

Life has been fairly good to me. It has behaved rather well, and has not given me too much grief, and for that I’m glad. But because of such good behavior, the outlandish antics and historical histrionics of my life have waned, and my writing has suffered in its stead. Without the high highs, and the low lows to draw on my literary powers, the constant emotional turmoil has been replaced by relative complacent contentment.

But with that realization, I am no longer content to stand here idly, watching the river of time rushing on by. It frustrates me to have become so comfortable that I have almost forgotten who I am.

So it seems fitting that I start my writing anew, on this day of days, this night of nights.

My very own birthday.