An impulse.

I haven't written in nearly a year. I started writing and then I stopped. Everyone has a blog or two. I follow odd ones, or none at all as the mood strikes me. I am fascinated or overwhelmed. We are creating all this text. Tap tap tap. And who will read it all. My heart hurts with the thought of the abandoned words, not really existing anywhere, and everywhere at the same time. The abandoned blogs. The lost hours and impulses and thoughts and tangents. All those gorgeous tangents.

And then I just sit back and remember the story of the woman that burned her journals. She burned them all and couldn't write until she knew that they would be burned.

And I am not her. I want someone to read this, oddly, but I am not exactly sure why, but for some misaligned hankerings of my ego, to be lauded and honoured for my genieus.

But maybe I will sit back and say, hey, I am the product. And resist the capitalist implications of turning everything, even me, into a commodity for value.

Or maybe I will think of another circle to go around in my head.