I was thinking about the why of why I write here. What’s the point? That could be argued by 6 or 7 faithful followers, or pondered over a coffee sometime. The point, as it were, is hardly a fitting metaphor for something that is utterly blurry.
So why? I’m not really looking for validation of my ideas, or cataloging the stuff on my mind––to journal––or going to great lengths to give a voice to my thoughts. It’s been said; and certainly better said. That I’m saying it is probably of no consequence to you. I’ll always default to the belief that whatever I’m going through pales in comparison to whatever you might be going through. I don’t write here because I figured it out; my words come from that other place where life is always mysterious. We’re all dealing with stuff; mine is no more important than yours.
So why? Maybe to be seen... to be looked at and not looked over... to take chances... to not submit to the submit button––to press it with my middle finger... to feel alive... to gawk at the reflection of my own words and not feel embarrassed or ashamed... to move... to breathe... to live.