Why do I still do this?

The other day, a friend of mine asked me, “Why do you still blog?”

I started blogging in early high school as a project for a class. That was close to 10 years ago, and even though ever minute hasn’t been recorded and there are some years when I didn’t write anything down – I still value the amount of writing that I have done.

I’m the kind of person to re-read my old posts and remember things, or laugh out loud at something that was said 3 years ago. My memory of events, times and people is most certainly not perfect, so I try not to trivialise the times when I need  to write things  down.
Most of the people that I know, realise that I’m not the most normal human being around. I don’t like to gossip or bitch, even though I’m female; my nights are spent with myself most of the time, or my husband;  I have never liked going out and doing what is normal for girls.
That’s not my normal.

I like books, rain, hugs and silence. I don’t care if you’ve got a shiny new car and revel in the  fact that you now have a big house. If you’re a kind and decent person,then  I have time for you. If you have strange ideas about the world, history, literature and philosophy and don’t mind getting into somewhat stupid arguments over the reason for breaking spaghetti noddles in half before cooking them; then You and I should talk!

It’s stupid, but we all do it.
As soon as there is a little hint of difference in a person, that doesn’t mesh well with our ideal theory of what a person should be, then they’re suddenly turned into this thing. Not a person any more but this time wasting, good for nothing, thing.

I blog/write to let those thoughts and feelings out. They wouldn’t get a mention in the norm of every day society and sometimes, not even in my own head. Other things become more important than them, until they soak back into my subconscious, never to be seen again.  People have chosen not to appreciate my strange satire and witty comments, just like they have also chosen not to like the colour blue or the taste of mushrooms. So therefore, I’ve chosen not to show them off much. The blue mushrooms of my mind hardly get a taste of freedom, except for every now and again.

I write so I don’t yell.
I write to remind myself of the sanctity of the written word and how many different moral fights it can fight.
I write for the benefit of myself.
I write for the people who read what I write.
I write to let my guard down once in a while.
I write to better understand the thoughts in my head and make better decisions.

I write because I have something to say.

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