There are always things I think I should write about. Important things. Stupid things. Amusing things. Stuff about things. But then I don’t. I figure, who’s going to read it? But that’s not the right way to look at it. I dig writing. I dig writing just for the sake of writing. Writing for me. For the void. For the moment and for tomorrow. Writing for others is all well and fine, and yes, I do that with some of my other blogs that real life people do read, but the world is so stuff full of words everywhere that most people who write can’t expect to be read unless they are (or are introduced by someone who is) already established, notorious, or deeply embedded within a community of sorts.
…but this isn’t meant to be a post about writing, getting noticed, or any other pro blogger tip thingy. It is a post about remembering its ok to write just for the hell of it. Remembering this reminds me of who I am. Remembering who I am helps me deal with the ever present wave of horror, despair, hate and injustice that forever hangs above the world threatening to brake upon anyone that dares to look at it. Remember who you are. Remember that yes, some people hate you for just being alive, that yes, just being alive hurts others. Remember that some people are ignorant, bigoted fucks, but also that sometimes it is you who is ignorant.
I so need to write. I compose entire essays in my mind and think “I’ll write this up later”. Later, later is the real issue.
Ah yes, I am very familiar with the inner constructed essay that never finds existence. Yes, not so much a matter of “I should write about X”. X is already written in the mind. It is a tragic waste not to follow through.
I’ve been telling myself this again lately, and it or some other reason has given me a bit of success the past week plus. It doesn’t even really matter what it is, but the satisfaction I get from taking something seen in my mind’s eye and putting it in to words, and the time spent rearranging those words in a rigorous pursuit for precision or poetry, is one of the better states of mind I experience. When you’re writing, the rest of the world fades away and the hours breeze by. And yet, if at the end of the day, I know I wrote something I’m happy with, it feels remarkably less wasted than on any other, regardless of how it might look to an outsider.
Words that sing are the height of a day not wasted. Days where words refuse to sing or slice also aren’t wasted. I dig your idea of precision and poetry. Converting the compressed data that swarms the mind to something coherent is an art and a war.