It’s mid-January and I’ve spent the early afternoon huddled in an East Village coffee shop. An avenue away, on the Bowery, march the ghosts of idols passed: musicians, poets, philosophers whose words have served as the requisite muse that young people with even an ounce of creative yearnings dream about. As I enter the fourth decade of my life, I feel divorced from that youth. Abandoned by the muse. Aborted by the creativity I’ve always imagined birthed inside of me.

I am living on 54th and Lexington in the heart of Manhattan, yet sometimes I feel so detached from the city I’ve adopted as my home. I have a great job, one that provides in excess the extraordinary life that I live. But I miss these words that I used to love. I miss that feeling of inspiration. So, in 2012, my 32nd year of existence, I yearn to get that back again; back to the words, back to the muse.

Of course, I’m not sure what that will resemble. I know that I do not plan to fellate myself in blog form; I’m not looking to create meladrama out of my first world problems through this faux-communicating and self-aggrandizing medium. I’m just looking to put words to paper, albeit in a digital form. I’m looking to capture my personal creativity in the dollup of digital amber. That’s all one can ask for these days, isn’t it?