Simple, but not shallow, musings

I fell asleep when I got home tonight and slept fitfully for a few hours. I know it's because I broke down and had a beer with my co-workers after work. Beer, or any alcohol for that matter, makes me sleeeeeepy. It sucks getting old. I woke up from my nap sort of discombobulated. I began my routine of reading my growing list of favorite blogs. After a while, I started feeling weird. Insecure. I couldn't put my finger on why, but it kept getting worse the more I read. Then I realized what it was. I was feeling insecure because the blogs I was reading were so excellent, so interesting, so moving. And I couldn't help but compare those blogs to mine.

Because, you see, I don't have children or a husband to write about. I don't necessarily have daily epiphanies where everything seems worth it; I don't have moments of joy at seeing my own dimples reflected on my child's face. I don't have that, not at this time. And I may never have that. So what DO I have? I thought about what I do write about, and suddenly it seemed trite, even shallow. Lizards. My cats. Happy hours. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would anyone even want to read my blog, it's so shallow and one dimensional? I began to feel sorry for myself, sitting here alone on my couch on a Friday night, reading blogs, a Law&Order SVU rerun glowing from the TV. Muted because it's a rerun. I fretted a bit longer, feeling embarrassed suddenly that I ever started this blog at all. What was I thinking?? Why did I think anyone could possibly find this interesting, when I myself was bored with my own life? Why why why???

Then it hit me, and I felt my anxiety begin to melt away. I had forgotten my purpose for a few moments. I got swept away in self pity, in momentary loneliness. But now the relief washed over me as I remembered that I did not begin this blog to entertain other people. I remembered how in the beginning, I wasn't even sure I wanted anyone at all to read it but a few of my closest friends. It was a stepping stone for me to share it with a handful of people, and I was very shy about it. It was a milestone when I decided to share it with my family. See, the reason I began this blog is because I'm a writer, and I always have been, and I always will be -- and I need to write. Because it feels good to write, it feels therapeutic, and I sleep better at night after getting something off my chest here, no matter how simplistic. I write for me. It motivates me to write on a more regular basis because what I'm writing is actually being published. I'm more compelled to blog knowing that there's even the mildest possibility that someone out there in Internet-land might read it. But I don't write it for the Internet. I write it for myself. And I will share it with you for as long as you care to read it, but even if no one ever came here and read my words again, I'd keep writing, because the words are inside of me and they must come out, even if they're not always serious, even if they're often silly. You are welcome to join me anytime, I'll be right here.

As I am writing this, I'm also keenly aware that two of my cats are right this second trying to bring down my new silk tree. And you know what? They just might do it. And you know what else? If they do, it will be damn funny, and I'll take pics of the aftermath and post them on here and blog about it. And that is O-Kay.