I like how I don’t even have to close my eyes to |see this.

I like how even though there are five things I would rather be doing on a Friday night than blogging, this is okay too (and Saturday, Sunday will make up for it).

I like how I can, on a whim, turn to the literary journal my university published in 2008 and read an essay I wrote. I like how I find things I would revise; I like how it resonates and sounds like my voice. I like how creative I was (am?).

Who determines importance? Is it what the teachers preach in the classroom?  Is it what the media puts in red letters and flashing lights?  Is it what the blogosphere pings and trackbacks to?  Will there be a flashing “42” when you reach the end the universe, the brink of wisdom and understanding.  Or will you go on blogging mindlessly, sharing the intimate slivers of yourself in inarticulate encryption to the other lonely souls of the world.  It’s hard to write without venturing into the personal.  Without hinting at some intimate secret, that, by the very nature of being a secret, you have held close to your heart.

© Sparsile 2007


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