Why I don’t write

Well, yes, I’m still here, but I haven’t written much lately, in case you haven’t noticed.

I’ve been pretty busy with work, dashing from here to there and my mind going at a million miles an hour most of the time. When you’re like that there’s not much room for anything else. It doesn’t even to occur to you until after the event, by which time you couldn’t be fucked, anyway.

That’s pretty accurate in general. I’m fine, but I’ve lost a bit of interest in keeping this up. In terms of fucks, I’ve got none to give with regard to this.

I find that curious. Nothing’s happened. It’s not as if I’ve suddenly realised I don’t want to do it anymore. I’ve hardly thought of it, but that’s the point, really – it’s just drifted away from me.

Now that I’m taking the time to actually add to it again (I haven’t given up on it altogether), I wonder why it’s got to this stage.

There have been times past when keeping a blog like this seems awfully self-indulgent. Sometimes I’m writing something, and I ask myself who really wants to read such navel-gazing and trivia? It’s a good question. The answer, in the past, is who cares? You read you don’t read, your call. I don’t write for an audience. Whether one person or a thousand read my words is a matter of indifference to me. I write for myself, though – I admit – there are times I feel a tad embarrassed thinking others might be reading this.

My stated motivation for keeping a blog previously is that I wanted to keep a record. I’m alive, here’s the proof. These are the times I live in, these are my thoughts and observations, this is what I feel and think and wonder at. I’m conscious that one day I’ll likely to be gone, and while this might not outlive me and my time, perhaps mine will be one of the thousands of voices archived somewhere in time.

The other real benefit of writing here is the therapeutic value it gives me. They say it’s good to write things out, and that’s my experience too. It doesn’t apply to everything, but there are occasions that you’re so full of stuff that it’s a relief to get it out of you.
The act of translating it into words and to structure it in a meaningful way imposes a discipline on the experience. It forces you to think about it objectively and puts some space between what you feel and what you think.

Often I find understanding come to me as I write – and just as often after I’ve written it out and behold it. Often I find myself revealing and explaining things I didn’t realise I knew. I achieve a kind of retrospective wisdom, though it’s only ever temporary.
The one thing I truly value in a personal sense is being able to go back in my life and observe what was happening at a particular time. Quite regularly I’ll find myself clicking on a random date in the past and reading my thoughts of the day. Sometimes I’m surprised, but more often it comes back to me. There’s a richness in the recollection. I was there.

Now that I write that I think it’s hard to give up this blog – especially as I’ve committed so much to it. I feel for the majority of people who have no such record of their life. Life just flies by, but much of mine has been preserved in amber.

Maybe I’ll keep going. Life is all ebbs and flows. Doubtless, it will flow again sometime soon.

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