I'm writing this directly on here (so I hope there is no way to accidentally post it without proofreading it first), which means I'm feeling A) whimsical and 2) pretty brave. (That was my homage to Mad About You's Paul Buchman, though I would hope anyone reading this would not need this explained.)
My thoughts, as written in journals, letters, and on scraps of paper passed along as important missives between classes, have always tended to ramble. They would meander between topics, picking up strays here and there, finding roundabout ways to return to the original once most tangents had been touched on.
And there was always so much joy in the practice. Yes, it was great to hear that so-and-so laughed out loud while reading a description of an otherwise mundane task. Or that a shared experience recounted in one of my letters brought it all back to life again with fond memories. There's nothing more fulfilling than to hear that your words were the cause of an emotional reaction. But it's more personal than that.
I used to write all the time. Just to amuse myself. It was fun. Years of life trudging through managed to slow it down to almost nothing. It's wrong to blame things like school, work, love - the other necessities of life, for my newfound laziness. But that won't stop me from doing it anyway. Things get in the way. Days become long and tiring and suddenly you stop finding the time to write a humor-filled letter to a close friend (something that once would have been as important for me as it would have for our friendship). And that's no way to live.
I'm hoping that the occasional random weekday's ramblings end up inspiring the other days of the week. :)
