To write is to come alive
I’m tired
The puppy has kept me awake most of the night.
And yet, I’m here again: coffee poured, music gently playing and eyes fixed on the road up ahead.
And I’m alive, writing a few words on (for now) my blogging platform of choice.
And that makes me very happy. There aren’t many things I can ascribe that level of bliss.
To be clear, it’s not the fact that I can express an opinion, be troubled aloud or chime in on some heady issue, it’s the fact that I can write and see first one word appear, then another, until finally my thoughts and emotions are distilled to something I like; and I feel fully alive. Sure, it’s rarely pretty, too often stuffy, brought about by years of writing for a particular audience (don’t forget I’m a lawyer — not that that adds up to a row of beans!) and is often all over the place. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Am I concerned that to date I’ve not written my memoir or published a further book of poetry? No, not really. If it happens, it will; if it doesn’t, well, there’s more than enough material free-floating in the blogosphere for someone, if they’re minded, to piece together the shards of my life — not that it’s the least bit interesting, less still memorable.
Previously, as was my way, I wanted everyone to share in the beauty of blogging but those days are long since gone. I realised then as I do now that most people are quite content with the way things are and if they’re not attracted to typing a few words or keeping a journal then wonderful. Their lives will unfold just as spontaneously and beautifully and they sure as hell don’t have to commit any of it to digital paper just because the old geezer Summerhayes extols its virtue.
One last thing. I’ve done lots of things in my life but writing or blogging (I’m undecided which camp I best fall into) has been with me now for the better of 14 years and I’d like to think it will be with me, god willing, until the day I die. Even if I don’t blog, I’ll still keep a journal of some description, as well as a diary. Again, I’ve no expectation of anyone being remotely interested in what I have to say, but I know that it will be one of the only things under my control and although I’ve no desire to offend anyone, at least I’ll have one way of sharing what I really think about the world; namely, how did it get like this?
Blessings,
— Julian
