there was a time when i would write about books

one might have even called me a book blogger. i look back on my old posts, and there they are: thoughts and opinions about the books i was reading. i appreciate remembering what i thought. it’s nice reading back through them. i wish I’d kept that up. at the time, though, i was disappointed with each one of my book posts, because no one, so it seemed, read them or cared. back then i would get likes and comments on many of my wordpress posts, and it felt like i was part of the world, existing, being seen. things are different now, and i no longer expect this. but even so, the constant disappointment of the posts that I put the most work into being the least viewed has stayed with me, and over time has caused me to blog less and less, and when I do blog, to put less and less effort and thought into my posts. and yet, the posts i’m glad i wrote are the long, effortful ones with no views…

so who am i writing for now? or, who am i not writing for? no one? myself?

i still read books, same as ever, around 30 or 40 per year. but no one would know. i don’t talk about books to anyone, except a few people in a chat room sometimes. and i don’t write about books. why not? why?

it’s something i would like to do (write about books) but have not been able to bring myself to do.

i have tried multiple times, in notebooks, in documents, in messages to friends. but i lose track of the reason. as with many things in my life, i lose my grasp on the point, and i stop.

will i then lose grasp on the point of writing in general? of reading? anything is possible. it becomes necessary to learn to do things without there being a point (but why?) because otherwise, one might collide with the fatal realization that there is no point to anything.