I face the same dilemmas: too little time, too many distractions, too great the aspirations and so insignificant the reality.
But still. One has to start somewhere.
One important distinction. I have no aspirations to be a writer: I do not harbour the faintest belief that I write with sufficient wit, intelligence, grammatical nous, creative expression or anything else that turns thoughts into something that can bring pleasure to others. Neither do I believe I have nothing worth saying.
This is a personal journal. I have no idea where it will end. And I just changed the word 'journal' from journey. I suspect much of the journey will be, as it already has been, deeply personal. The journal represents those parts I choose to share - and often in the safe knowledge that absolutely no-one is reading this.
Apart from 37 users in China, according to the stats from my first ever post over two years ago. Hmmm. Guess we won't read too much into that.
What's brought me back? too much to say here, I'm too tired. Friends troubles. My own troubles. Our joys. The twists of my life. (and Jeez, it twists like a writhing serpent on heat!).
Oh bollocks does it. Maybe in my mind, but I always was way too dramatic.
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