Something more than superfluous

I've been thinking a lot about blogging, writing in general,

Trying to figure out whether or not I want to continue publishing and sharing thoughts and feelings conveyed through words posted on a blog somewhere for friends and family to read and spammers to post inane sales-pitch ad comments on. I think I may have doomed myself, trying to be cute and clever, calling this blog not superfluous even when it is.

Now I don't know if I care enough to continue.

There are a few people, who's opinions mean enough to me to share my writing with — for everyone else, why bother? I've been working, in semi-secret, on an amazing thing; if it works, it'll be game-changing. Perhaps world-changing. What's this little blog in comparison?

Then again, I have some fun sharing thoughts, in general. I've been living in my own mind so much recently — and the nature of dreams, is that they're always more exciting to live in than hear about — some connection beyond the people I see in one reality or another is nice to have.

But who cares to read any of this, anyway? I know some people, for I have no clue what reason, follow my journals, even when I don't post. People are so lazy, in general... they'd rather be told what's up — they don't want to read. Reading is work.

Lost loves.

There's something lacking in our world of advanced technology. Some element of the human spirit has become jaded, some facets entirely deceased. Eloquence as an art, with words in any form, requires practice. People will go to the gym to exercise all muscles other than the most important one: the brain. Where is Gold's Gym for the thinkers? I don't mean MENSA, I mean, the every man (and woman). When did this happen?

I read old (I know, this is a relative term) writing of mine (three to five years old) and hardly recognized it as my own. It was pithy, and funny, and perhaps slightly arrogant, but still... I wished at that moment that I could know my current abilities exist beyond those handwritten words in my private journal.

Listen to FDR speak in old recordings. Read letters and communications from the American Revolution or pioneers headed to California for the gold rush. Read the love letters written by young adults fighting in the Civil War — do we (as a society) maintain one-tenth of that attention, energy and care?

The handwriting says it all.

Look at the average person's handwriting. The ability to write and speak well has been lost like Latin; we can see it in old texts and attempt to recreate it, but its true nature has been lost. Handwriting isn't taught anymore, probably because of keyboards. It's as if no one stopped to realize that QWERTY isn't always the most effective solution.

The point.

Perhaps I'll continue to just because someone should. I haven't had the energy and fire to blog passionately since LiveJournal days, and I doubt I'll get that back. But I haven't shared much recently, because whatever I write seems either: too good, or too unimportant, to post.

The Cult of the Amateur really messed me up. It made me want to hold everything back. I don't want to be a member of that cult, that club — whatever you want to call it. It's sickening, disgusting... thinking about it makes me miserable.

But I've been reading a lot, and looking at a lot of words on paper (or e-ink screens), retina display and LCD, and I guess I see the point. At least the point I want to make.

How annoying would it be if I didn't share that point, that insight right now? I guess you'll find out.

Until next time...