So. I've been sitting here for a while. Thinking. Focusing. What on earth am I thinking about? Spaces full of nothing float in my mind where ideas should be. Now is not the time for my mind to empty itself. Whose side is it on?
I can feel now, the impatient void plucking vulnerable thoughts from my mind. The enormous void that is where the words go.
Stage struck am I, faced with this challenge. I'm an insecure egomania. Am I writing for myself? Why would I do that?
Well, because I'm afraid nobody else would be interested in what I have to say.
So why not write a diary?
Because secretly, I think people might be interested.
Ah, so, if I'm not writing for me, who am I writing for?
Oh, anonymous readers of course. Intelligent, discerning, interesting people that are interested. Imaginery validators to salve my vibrating unconscious, which craves recognition for being good, for being good at something.
For being of worth, worthy of praise maybe?
Not in a goody two shoes, 'aren't I good' kind of way.
But in a 'good for something' kind of way.
What am I good at? I'm good at being me I suppose.
But I want to be good at being a better me. A me that's better. Better than what?
Better than good. Maybe brilliant is better than good. That's what I'll be. Brilliant!!
To be a brilliant me, oh what a happy day that will be.
And that's just it, isn't it.
Do I really mean better? Well,yes I do, if better means happier.
And that's really what I'm about.
I'm full of words, pictures, stories, dreams, and spilling them out, writing them down, makes me happy.
And that's why I'm writing. Because writing makes me happy.
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