I always feel guilty...this blog just sitting here...being read by No One. And yet the possibility lies that if I do write something--commit thought to paper--that, in fact, Someone might read it. That does lie within the realm of possibility.
And then I wonder about why that, specifically, is important. Why does someone have to read this to validate my own thoughts to myself? Or appreciate my thoughts? Or harangue my thoughts? Am I really that kid, screaming in the corner because no one is paying any attention?
No. I'm not.
I've asked myself that question time and time again, when the little Orphan in me is everywhere I turn with those bulbous tears just teetering on the verge of a spill down my cheek and onto my dress, requiring that I explain why I'm a grown woman and I'm crying...because I'm not getting enough attention. And no, it's not me but that damned little Orphan. Who is actually cute. And on most days, very pleasant.
I think my guilt stems strictly from within and comes from a place deep within me that believes that I just need to be at the right moment and the right place at the right time and something will turn. I'm well indoctrinated in the belief that hard work can move mountains. What I'm much more willing to play with is the idea that a little bit of luck can truly make all the difference; that serendipity and circumstance, rather than planning, can be the thing you need.
But even I'll admit something has to be written somewhere and sometime if you're hoping that serendipity will come via the written word.
Fine, Serendipity. I'm game.
And then I wonder about why that, specifically, is important. Why does someone have to read this to validate my own thoughts to myself? Or appreciate my thoughts? Or harangue my thoughts? Am I really that kid, screaming in the corner because no one is paying any attention?
No. I'm not.
I've asked myself that question time and time again, when the little Orphan in me is everywhere I turn with those bulbous tears just teetering on the verge of a spill down my cheek and onto my dress, requiring that I explain why I'm a grown woman and I'm crying...because I'm not getting enough attention. And no, it's not me but that damned little Orphan. Who is actually cute. And on most days, very pleasant.
I think my guilt stems strictly from within and comes from a place deep within me that believes that I just need to be at the right moment and the right place at the right time and something will turn. I'm well indoctrinated in the belief that hard work can move mountains. What I'm much more willing to play with is the idea that a little bit of luck can truly make all the difference; that serendipity and circumstance, rather than planning, can be the thing you need.
But even I'll admit something has to be written somewhere and sometime if you're hoping that serendipity will come via the written word.
Fine, Serendipity. I'm game.
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