Alright, I admit it. I can't write a blog.
Just can't. I can hear characters talking in my head, people I have
invented and are alive in my imagination.
I can write academically; I have been to school.
And I can muse philosophical and certainly have opinions galore.
But regularly spill words onto the page?
It's just not happening.
And it's not like I don't want to. I've tried since I was given a diary as a pre-teen,
in a likely attempt to get me to shut up for a few minutes everyday,
and I tried, I really tried. But seriously? Every day?
The trouble here is what? Self doubt? Low self-esteem? My horrible spelling? Fear of censure?
But a diary is private, so fear of criticism should not be an issue.
In fact, is anyone ever going to read this blather?
Diary Entry: some day, some month, year - lost in time.
I blew my nose today. The snot was clear. The weather was shitty.
I stepped into a puddle. Deliberately.
My imagination is vast; my life is mundane.
See? I sound like Albert Camus on a bad day. Embarrassingly sensitive and self-centered.
Whereas the best bloggers are oblivious and egotistical.
And shut up.
I cannot not know.
Who is my keeper?
Plato wrote of Socrates' last speach:
And Socrates replied, "Perhaps one of you will say:
"Socrates, after all this is over and you have left us, you can spend the rest of your days
quietly minding your own business."
Now, this is perhaps the hardest thing of all for me to try to make some of you understand,
for if I were to tell you that I cannot mind my own business you will
not be inclined to believe me.
And yet, if I were to tell you to let no day pass without thinking about goodness and the other
things of which you have heard me speak, and that the greatest good that a man can do
in the eyes of God is to examine himself and others, and that a day without this sort of
self-examination is not worth living, you will be even less inclined to believe me.
Never-the-less, Gentlemen, that is how it is."
We ARE our brothers' keepers, but we are our own keeper first.