A couple of years ago I threw away years and years of journals that I had been keeping, and I'm glad that I did it. Recently, though, I've begun writing in notebooks again, using a fountain pen. The act of writing satisfies me. I enjoy filling up the pages.
Will I ever read what I'm writing? I doubt it.
Will anyone ever be interested enough in me to read it?
Who cares.
The value of the writing is in the writing, even getting a bunch of trivial junk out of my mind by putting it down on paper.
Occasionally the germ of a poem has emerged on the pages of my notebook, or ideas that could be developed, if I had the urge to develop them.
What about a book called: "How to Expect the Unexpected?"
I rather assume that no one in the world is reading the stuff I put in this blog. It's kind of like keeping a journal and leaving the drawer unlocked, half hoping that someone will snoop around in it, but being careful not to put anything too revealing about other people into it.
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