i've blogged a lot...
I was having fun, cruising along my dashboard when I noticed the list of posts I've written in the last six week. 62 posts! 62! That's a lot! I don't know how many words that is or how many pictures or references to monkeys, but that's a lot! Funny thing is, when I go back and read what I've written, I can barely remember writing it. I can remember the event and usually why I wrote it, but sometimes there is barely a glimmer of why I posted numerous times in the day. Sometimes when I write it's like awakening from a dream: the picture is there and I have to record it, giving life to the details before it disappears. I'm afraid that if I blink, if I allow myself to be distracted in any way, the picture will be gone, leaving behind only a glimmer of what it could have been.
But sometimes I wait, savoring the picture in my mind, allowing it to dance around and grow. And sometimes the picture is pleasant - I hold onto it as long as I can before I think it is ready to be written down. Other times, it festers. I hold onto it for much too long, so long that it hurts and letting go is a relief, a breath of fresh air after a long and restless night.
I sometimes wonder why I write, why I feel compelled to capture a picture or a bit of dialogue or even a dream. And then I wonder why the artist paints, why the architect creates, why the scientist discovers, or why anyone does anything that initially seems out of the ordinary.
And in wondering, I don't feel so strange writing and blogging so many words that have so little meaning and capture so few pictures. And in reading, they may not mean a lot and might not be anything more than a picture. But to me, in writing, they mean so much more - they become everything.
But sometimes I wait, savoring the picture in my mind, allowing it to dance around and grow. And sometimes the picture is pleasant - I hold onto it as long as I can before I think it is ready to be written down. Other times, it festers. I hold onto it for much too long, so long that it hurts and letting go is a relief, a breath of fresh air after a long and restless night.
I sometimes wonder why I write, why I feel compelled to capture a picture or a bit of dialogue or even a dream. And then I wonder why the artist paints, why the architect creates, why the scientist discovers, or why anyone does anything that initially seems out of the ordinary.
And in wondering, I don't feel so strange writing and blogging so many words that have so little meaning and capture so few pictures. And in reading, they may not mean a lot and might not be anything more than a picture. But to me, in writing, they mean so much more - they become everything.
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