Having left FB a week or two ago and quickly decided before I could persuade myself to do otherwise to delete my Instagram account, I have been sitting around hoping for a dividend of new attention to the world and those around me.

It has not quite happened like that. I was hoping that restricting myself to only a handful of blogs and only using Twitter as a linking mechanism to the posts I write here would suddenly create a new burst of creativity, at least a poem or two, or an idea for a book, but no.

All there is is the fuzzy, wracked, radio out of tune intereference of my thoughts. The shafts of light that there have been seem to arrive in vague promptings for posts to write in this LentBlog series. Memories of friends. Meditations on lines (never whole poems) by half-forgotten poets.

It turns out that sitting in a room with just yourself for company is not the holiday (how could I have imagined that?) that I had dreamed of. If anything, I am more alive, now, to my prejudices and hostilities and unkindnesses than I was previously. The price I have paid for weakening my connectivity is a deepening understanding of my inner baggage. Who would have thought it? I wouldn’t. It almost makes me homesick for all of those cat videos. Somehow life there was easier.