There is certainly something about having my thoughts extend beyond my own skin that I find exhilarating. I know very well that most of what I write is seen by nobody, and that's perfectly fine with me. I mean, who is going to be the least bit interested in reading a blog entry about blogging?
I'm quite an ordinary person by most measures, and I've certainly done nothing of note thus far in my life. If I had something interesting to write about, I'm sure I would be doing just that and not rambling on about the joys of thumb-typing pedestrian blog entries.
I've been on a walk for nearly an hour now, and this is the time when I do the most thinking. It's only natural that I should feel it necessary to chronicle my brain's sometimes schizophrenic synapses.
In the early 1980s, Morrissey would walk all over Manchester immersed in thought. When he got home he would write 'furiously', as he put it. Obviously he didn't have the option to write and walk simultaneously, because the notion of scribbling about with a pencil and a pad of paper mid-step is perfectly absurd.
Generally, I've forgotten most of my thoughts by the time I return home - something I've always considered wasteful. I'm not of the opinion that my thoughts carry any import whatever, I simply enjoy being able to see what passed through my brain at any given time.
And with that, I was gone...