After all, it is the fifth day thereof. So the Hoskin opening of the parcel from the Hunts is still seasonable, I would say.
I actually have not much to say. I’ve had a lot of good ideas for posts in the past, but I’ve always been too tired or lazy to convert them into the written word. This is a problem, of course. Writing is one of those things that you have to practise in order to actually be good at and have things people would like to read. It is highly preferable that you (whoe’er you are) read this because you enjoy my style or what I have to say or think I’m clever or amusingly stupid or whatever than simply because I’m a friend or relative who happens to be on your RSS feed.
I wish I could say something terribly clever for you to read in order that the RSS be not in vain. I hope you don’t feel somewhat ripped off by the fact that you have navigated yourself here hunting for a new posting only to be disappointed that the post you have found is, by and large, rubbish wherein a young man is writing about himself writing and also about you reading it which is one of those strange experiences and a little hard to think about when one actually tries, considering that fancy people who know too many words tend to plop the Greek prefix meta- onto the front of a word in order to describe what’s going on here. Like metawriting or something (we had to do that in OAC Writer’s Craft). And maybe you are engaging in metareading.
Indeed, you are reading this. We have already addressed issues of why reading in general. And I’ve listed a few reasons of why this in particular. But do you, O reader of mine, ever consider the act of reading itself? That somehow, the light from your computer monitor is sending stuff into your brain and your brain is deciphering the squiggles on the screen into words, thoughts, ideas. And these are more than mere squiggles, more than 1’s and 0’s. These are thoughts. Some of them possibly groundbreaking. Most of them simply bizarre. And what makes a piece of writing worth reading? Is the rubbish I produce here worth reading? Perhaps there are other rubbishy blogs that are more worthy of your attention. Perhaps I am wasting your time. Perhaps I am wasting my time. Perhaps we should all be praying, or doing charitable acts for the poor, or reading Plato, or making pie, or laughing with our families, or engaging in deep theological conversations with our friends, or dancing through the streets in joy, or listening to a piece of beautiful music, or a million other things, none of which includes reading or writing this blog.
Yet you and I, reader, have made it this far. We have not begun praying, or doing charitable acts for the poor, or reading Plato, or making pie, or laughing with our families, or engaging in deep theological conversations with our friends, or dancing through the streets in joy, or listening to a piece of beautiful music. I am still writing. You are still reading.
And I have no especially clever things to say.
So why are we still here?
Perhaps next time I won’t waste our precious moments.