Friday, December 21, 2012

A Ridiculous Habit

I've been thinking about my blog.

What is it about?  What is the purpose of writing here?  One person I know writes about her journey through weight loss and increased health and happiness.  Another writes about her journey through addiction towards health - physical, mental, spiritual.  Yet another writes a blog about Canadian history.

What do I write about?

I muse.  I ponder.  I observe and write about the people around me and I do an absolutely shit job of hiding their identities.  I worry sometimes about friends reading back through old posts and deciding they don't want to be friends with me anymore because of what I've written.

I was a different person when I started this blog.  Younger, yes.  Definitely more naive.  I wrote on here as if it were a private journal, oblivious to the fact that once it's online anyone - anyone - can read it.

I've learned the hard way not to use people's names.  I've learned the hard way that people can figure out who I am extremely easily.  That what I write here is read by other people and that what I write here can come back and bite me in the ass, oh, so quickly.

All of that and I'm not sure I even have a purpose here.  I started this blog because someone told me to, back when I was young and naive and highly suggestible.  I started for no real reason and I just haven't ever stopped.

Well, not permanently, anyway.

What started this train of thought was, in part, chatting with a co-worker who is starting a blog.  She keeps asking me for advice and I don't really know what to tell her.  I'm not a consistent blogger nor am I a terribly wide read one.  I don't do all the upkeep you're supposed to do - reading other blogs, leaving comments, creating a trail back to my own blog to generate traffic, all that stuff.  I write sometimes.  That's it.

And I was thinking about what I do - writing - and how ridiculous it is.  I take words, ideas, out of my head and put them down on a piece of paper - not even always a real piece of paper, sometimes it's virtual which makes this even more abstract and ethereal - and that's it.  That.  Is.  It.  Carefully thought out or randomly flung, either way it's just words, intangible thought bubbles, set onto a page.

It's absurd.  Absolutely insane.  I don't build houses or cut out tumours or make food for hungry people or plant seeds in a field.  I write shit down.  The end.  And I want it to matter for some reason.  But really, it's fucking insane!  I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of what I do, right there alone in the car, laughing like a lunatic.

But I still want to write.  I'm not going to stop writing just because it's such a bizarre habit.

It might be pointless.  It might be crazy.

And I might never find a real purpose behind it.

But I'll never be able to stop doing it.

And I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse.