I'm writing.

I want my life to be an interesting read. I want you the reader, to sit and look at pages, not a screen, but real honest to god pages. The kind made from paper, made from trees. From the earth. I want you to see ink on paper and for that ink to form symbols that you'll recognize as words and I want those symbols to paint images of my life and I want those images to inspire, awe, and to teach you.

But, as of yet, my life could not fill a novel and if it did it would not be an interesting read. Amusing at times, perhaps. But interesting? Inspiring? Awe worthy? Hardly.

And so you, my reader, who may very well be myself at a future date, or someone else who is either procrastinating on something more important, or who in sleep's absence was crawling through cyberspace and ended up here, you read this. These words not of my life, but of my yet to be life. Not on paper, bound neatly between front and back cover, but on the screen of some machine that is cold and unfeeling.

There is something about holding a book that makes me excited and anxious. I don't get that rush from reading something off of a screen. Machines detract from the reading experience in the sense that you lose that contentedness you feel with the author when you are holding their words in your hands.

Think about it.
You are holding their words.
Their thoughts.
Their mind.
In your hands. Something that is an idea, a glimmer in your sleep that you just barely grab hold of before you become too awake and lose it completely, can be turned into something tangible that anyone, anywhere can hold in their hands.
It then has weight. It is actual. It is real.
Because you wrote it.

Am I crazy for getting excited over that? Does anyone else feel that?


I want to give that feeling to someone.


Today, over coffee, my Dad said to me "So what's your plan?"

My plan?... "For the evening? For the week? What do you mean?"

"Well you're going to graduate and then what?"

Did he mean, my plan for my life? I asked him, "You mean like... my plan for the rest of my life?"


He did.


Fuck. I don't know.

"Dad, I have no idea what I want to do. For the first time I'm a day by day kind of person"

Ever since that conversation I've been thinking about it. I didn't expect to find an answer and I still don't have a plan. But I know that I love to write. And I want to do that. Not for a career. That's not the plan.

However, I think it can be in the plan.
I don't need to be noteworthy. I just miss writing. It's such a catharsis for me. So I'm going to write more. And read more. I'm going to hold other people's ideas in my hands and maybe their ideas will spark my ideas and I'll finally figure out The Plan. And that plan will lead me to do amazing things. And those amazing things, I'll write down. And maybe it will be something of worth to someone else.
And they will hold my thoughts in their hands.
And I will spark something in them, just as that same fire was ignited by those before me.