I Don’t Really Write Anymore

I don’t really write anymore. And it isn’t because I do not enjoy what used to be of utmost pacification –well, perhaps not utmost but on some high ranking of covert pleasure, like the way altruism feels, a secret sort of open-ended type of deed that is meant to fill the ambience with a floral aroma of goodness. Of righteousness? But it never really does. I suppose it never really did. I don’t think there was a flaw ever in and of itself — it was simply never meant to be enough. 

I think at some point it is of some obligatory cognitive impetus to “smell” a goodness flying out of fingers typing or penning, but it’s a spiral that twirls downward, at least that is how it was for me, at least that is how I know it to be for all excellent writers. That was an inadvertently placed phrase implying I’m excellent (haha I don’t actually feel that way) which was quite hilariously placed. 

Ah, whatever I don’t really write anymore. I have found other things to do — perhaps I may label them as hobbies as I did the first, I have found what I had been babbling about for a few months. Blah blah and blah purpose. But God has smoothed a path for me and I am grateful. 

I suppose this is the remaining writer in me with its obnoxious convoluted circumvention wanting to say a message of a sentence in an essay. I suppose this is me saying good bye to this blog and what is in it, I suppose I can keep what’s on it running and I suppose it may not be a permanent end — although I am not too sure what is to be done to a platform unheeded. Algorithms don’t get tired I guess — so it’ll just stay. 

Bye, everyone.