I have let this blog grow stale. It sits here, drying out, gathering dust, forgotten, yet still getting it’s little trickle of views somehow. Why do I keep it? Why not.
I constantly ask myself why do I want to write? why? and I’ve still not got a clear answer. My words go into the void and the number of eyes they encounter (and whether that number ever surpasses zero) is unknown. But putting those words together does something for me, something positive for my insides. Some itch is scratched in my brain when I complete a sentence or paragraph or poem or prose. That must mean it’s worth doing. So here I go again on my own, down the only road I’ve ever known. Here will be words served up daily, in piles or in smatterings, thoughts or unthoughts, melodious or discordant.
Even this little scribbling here, has made me feel good… reason enough to write? Yes, but…
I am aware what the source of the good feeling is: an imagined reader. As I write, I imagine being read. By who? Who knows. Someone like me, perhaps. Or perhaps someone very unlike me but who, after reading me, is able to identify with me despite our differences.
Imagination, it seems, is important for writing in more ways than one.