If you look at my public archives, this will be post #1200 on this here blog. In reality, I’ve locked a lot of stuff away, set it to private or hidden it in trash. Some of my favourite things I’ve ever written are in there, but there are some things I no longer wish the world into.
In reality, if I add up all the hidden posts, this is post #1512. Before this blog, there were at least 1000 posts somewhere else. Strewn across the internet and in pieces in magazines, I find at least another 200 pieces I’ve written.
So, let’s put that altogether – I’ve written something down and publicly passed it on to the world 2712 times. Sheena will cackle at the fact that there’s a 12 in there. I won’t even look at the masses of journals that live in my house, the scribbled notes, the letters I’ve written or the love notes that have littered the path of my life.
I woke up mid-thought this morning, desperate to get the words out over something. I ended up doing this calculation of where and when and how I’d written. The fragile mathematics of my scribbles made no sense for me, all of a sudden. I questioned myself internally:
1) Have I made any sense of the world we live in?
2) Am I okay with that sense?
3) Am I doing this life any justice?
4) I’m going to die one day. Hopefully, that’s a very, very long time away. Will what I have written communicate an adequate understanding of questions’ 1 to 3’s answers?
5) Will I have sought to know and understand as much as I could?
6) There is an entire Universe of knowledge out there and have I really paid attention?
7) Never mind the Universe, have I paid attention to what’s really in front of me?
8) And, if I have, have I written about it or expressed it in a way that is fair, aware and that seeks to question, not to just blatantly accept?
…and that was *before* I’d swallowed a cup of coffee…
I came down to this, though. This here public blog post #1200.
I’m not done. I’m not even mildly close to capturing everything I could possibly want to, through words. I realise I’m not even a fifth of the way there. I’ve done pretty well, in my own perspective. But damn, I am pining for the muse. And by pining, I mean chasing. And by chasing, I mean I am going to sit here and type and write and scribble until my fingers fall off or I run out of words.
And we all fear that. That one day where we will just run out of words and stop. Because I have absolutely no idea what I will do then. Which leads me to my next, and final point:
I have tried to do a million different things in life. I’ve been forced to face up to my own inadequacies in other realms. I’ve been challenged and I have failed with the aplomb of a duck diving into the water to catch a fish and missing by miles. I have danced myself into falling over. I have riddled myself out of crosswords and into algorithms of life that I do not understand, no matter how hard I try.
I’ve tried my best to be organised, authentic and honest.
But, the truth is – for me – writing is the only thing I know how to do. I think I’ll keep pining for that muse. That perfect sentence. That brilliant, balanced summation of something nobody else could quite explain in a way that made sense to me.
I’ll be here. Pining for the muse. Chasing the linguistic dragon. Catching life as often as I can.
I guess public post #1200 is, thank you for the words. And thank you for reading.