Unfortunately I was reading through some of my old journals last night. It seems clear that people who burn their journals once they are full are more sensible than me. Apart from rediscovering that I am an idiot across all the years, aspects and facets of my life I found one interesting entry.
Some years ago now I wrote constantly about longing for a correspondence with someone, someone who would read all the letters I could write, one a day, two a day, three a day but never write back, not ever. I longed for somewhere to send letters where they might be read, where I might at least in part be understood, a one way dream absorber so that I could empty my head. If only I had known about blogs I might not have filled so many pages about trying to send letters to nowhere.
I suppose that's all this blog is really, a letter to nowhere.
Some years ago now I wrote constantly about longing for a correspondence with someone, someone who would read all the letters I could write, one a day, two a day, three a day but never write back, not ever. I longed for somewhere to send letters where they might be read, where I might at least in part be understood, a one way dream absorber so that I could empty my head. If only I had known about blogs I might not have filled so many pages about trying to send letters to nowhere.
I suppose that's all this blog is really, a letter to nowhere.
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