Cri de Couer

“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money,” ....Samuel Johnson

I am not feeling that one at all.

Look, this little affectation under Alphabet's watchful eye has never made me a dime.  The chances of me writing something that will spin me into the lottery system that is the publishing industry is only marginally more achievable than winning PowerBall.

So why do I do it?

I think that simply put, it is a diary.  Now if I were a 17th century man, I would probably be doing the same, merely with a wastepaper book and a quill, rather that tapping away at little beveled plastic squares and watching the letters appear on an LED.   But the process is the same.  Just write down what is passing through my brain that day.

The only difference is there are some odd souls and friends dropping by occasionally.  By intenet standards, I might at well be tacking a piece of paper on a bulletin board in downtown Milwaukie and I would probably get greater readership.  So, the question comes back, why do I do this.

I have been pondering this a lot lately.  I can't really explain this.  I just need to write something every day or I get crabby.  Whether or not people read it is secondary to the act.

I think that more and more it serves as a means for me to point things out.  We live in a society of people who, to me, appear to spend the bulk of their lives in quiet desperation.  The way that they get through the day is to ignore the impending and place all their hope in the idea that it will be better tomorrow.

So this little bit of nothing, tucked away in the belly of the beast, allows me a free rein to my worldview.  Where the Everyman on the way to work or the everywoman trying for something better is out there chasing yesterdays dreams are in their shiny new car, I sit here in my apartment writing.  They are looking toward a better future.  I am looking for a changed future.