An old friend of mine came over today. It was a nice gesture on his part, since I called him rather depressed and distressed over my last post. We talked about things, caught up on some stuff. And at one point of the conversation I mentioned that I am now close to friendless. Acquaintances I have many, but friendships don’t come as often and most don’t last very long, either by termination on my part or theirs. I’m not complaining, though. I’m very happy with the few I have. However, since people are most of the time immersed in their own lives and preoccupied with their own matters, I sometimes do find it difficult to find people to talk to.
So I write.
He asked me, “How many people read your blog?” and I answered, “Aside from myself, I’m not sure there’s any.”
Then he asked me, “Why not?”
And that got me thinking. And wondering. And pondering. As questions usually do.
And now, here’s my answer.
I don’t write to impress, to create art, to educate, to influence, to be understood, or even to be read. Words are simply my way of making some sense of it all. Therefore I don’t write for anyone else’s amusement or pleasure. I write for me. Because I need to. Because I am.
And that’s the truth. Oh, sorry. I meant, that’s my truth.
I do not wish for people to read my words and question my meaning, reason, or logic and especially I do not wish to justify them to anyone. As Anais Nin once said, “We don’t see things as they are… We see things as we are.” What’s the point of justifications and explanations if they will only be used as materials for debates and arguments? Can we really understand anyone or anything else when we ourselves only exist in the confines of our own limited versions of ‘reality’?
Just live and let live. And before we start to understand others, maybe it’s a good idea to take a look inside and understand ourselves.