Reading What You Write

I just spent like an hour reading over snippets of things I have written in the past year or so - hole-punching sheets of paper and putting them in a binder, where they will undoubtedly just sit and gather dust.

There is probably some sense to be made of all the words I have puked out on my blog(s) in the past, but I can't find it.  Sometimes I make beautiful sense, but more often I am just writing words about things.

I'd like to be a writer, yet I don't want to write.  The process is painful and wrenching and thankless (for me, at least).  I wonder what it's like to have people read what you write and take it as their own.  I wonder what it's like to have a coherent story to tell, and then to invite other people into that story so they can incorporate it personally and change it, as necessary.

Words are so vastly important, and yet so empty, sometimes.  So many words, and so little action.  So many discussions and debates and arguments and even just asides which are said and then disappear into the abyss.

Will they all come back someday?  Will all my words and meanings and linguistic implications matter to anyone, ever?  Has every word I've ever said just been lost, floating out into the void, impacting exactly no one, including myself?

There is no prophet if no one cares to listen.  There is no conversation if only one person is speaking.  There is no dialogue in a party of one, just sounds converging on each other and then breaking apart on the beach of life.

Hollering into the void is just a noisy echo, eventually.