Chekhov's mistress is now mine

I find it quite amusing that I began this blog more than a year ago, with the sincere and true intention of reading and reflecting. I truly wanted to create erudite, crafted essays on the inherent essence of literature and critical thinking. It really is very funny. It's been over a year now, and I've written exactly nothing. I've taken many pages of notes and I've begun many entries. But I have not yet managed to actually write a piece. Today I thought to ask myself why that may be. Perhaps it is that I am "too busy", as too many of us like to claim. I do a lot of things, yes. I dabble in many unnecessary and necessary endeavors, yes. But is it really true that I am "too busy" to pay attention to that which I claim to love? I think not. I think the truth is, that as Chekhov once said, literature is my mistress, in a manner of speaking, and I have forgotten her. The pleasure that I can find entwined in her arms, after a difficult and trying day with work, my wife, (once again stealing from Chekhov), has escaped my memory. I now seek her forgiveness, her alluring fragrance reeling me in without my permission. Mistress mine, my illicit pleasure, you seductive witch, allow me back into your embrace and let me lose myself in your unfathomable depths. And you, my readers, encourage me and frighten me, I beg of you. Remind me of what I lose when I forget my lover. And perhaps this time I shall not falter.