Who would ever read this?
Who would ever read something no more than a mindless babble?
I probably wouldn't. I am my own harshest critic. I think of my writings as mindless babble. They are. What value do they have for the world? Why would someone want to be interested in this?
And yet, I'd like to think that maybe someone would. Maybe someone does find this interesting.
It is the need to feel connected after all. I do want to feel seen and recognized for what I do. And what do I have? Nothing but my mind and words.
If I do not think of my own writing as something worth reading, why would someone else?
I write anyway, to try to break out of my own shell. I write, so that some future version of myself can remember me a bit differently. I am so much more. I eat, drink, sleep. I love people and their lives. I wish them live long and prosper.
But when it comes to my own life, I despise it. I look around and I feel disgusted. I get trapped in my own thoughts, waiting for someone to save me.
Looking back at these sentences, one pattern starts emerging: I. I keep talking about "I", myself. "I feel this way", "I think about that", and "I am doing this". I spend all my days being self-centered, wondering why I am feeling so utterly lonely.
Someone will be reading this. At least, future me will be reading this at some point. Sounds comforting to know that at least I still have myself to read my own writing.