It’s interesting, how words stick with you. How a question lingers around your ears like a cloud.

“Where can I read your writing?” A friend asked.

Immediately: Batfort dot com!

I said: I’m not ready to share that yet.

I thought about my initial challenge, to write and publish every day for a year. I thought about how it’s been over a year since I stopped pushing myself, daily, to distill words out of myself and display them for all the world to see.

I think now about how much of this blog feels like a “coming out,” of sorts. The coming forth of ideas and wishes that previously were known only to myself and my God.

I know how much writing reveals about a person—I’ve read books and blogs and tweets—and I’m embarrassed to put forth words knowing that I’ll reveal my innermost guts and give you something to hate.

So much has changed in my life since I first started posting here. My circumstances are almost entirely different: city, type of dwelling, dayjob, friends. (And currently: global pandemic.)

But some things I rarely talk about in my real life, and those are the things that come out here: a well-crafted aesthetic bubble, admiration for a sub-set of political movers, a metaphysical view of the world that is off the beaten track (and still very much under revision), my lifelong obsession with the interplay between the structure of an idea (or thing) and its outward expression.

Putting words around my thoughts is sometimes the only way to escape them. Putting them on a blog—pushing them out into the public square—feels like the most shameful, scandalous thing one could do with the contents of one’s mind.

Yet here I am. And here you are.

Shall we?