What do we write for? We all have blogs, so obviously we all need to get something out, But why write to an unknown audience? It allows us a safety known nowhere else- the ability to speak your heart, your mind to an invisible audience. I know why I write. My fingers itch. There are things that I know if I don't get down on paper, they will stew in my mind and give me no rest. I write what seem like insignificant observations, musings, but it helps me on such a deeper level. There are things I am not comfortable sharing with anyone, not even myself. I feel like if they are put down on paper in front of me, then they are too real. We all have secrets, things we are ashamed of. It's how one deals and copes with those things that really defines a personality. I use humor. I like to think of myself as reasonably witty, but who knows how others perceive me. Of course you can ask others for their opinions, but there is always that reluctance of others when it comes to being completely honest. People aren't even completely honest with themselves, much lest others.

Which brings up another question. When people look into who they are, I mean really look at themselves, do the majority of people like themselves or not. There are always those who don't take the time for self examination or self reflection. I think I do it too much. I beat myself up about my imperfections. But which is worse? Which end of that spectrum is more detestable? Taking no time for self reflection or taking too much? I would think not taking enough time to figure out who you are, what makes you tick, so to speak. The point of this post escapes even me. I'm in a somewhat melancholy mood, I suppose. I think too much. I've been told that, I know that. But I can't help it. I'm not even sure if it's something I want to change. I'm rambling, I know, but i can't help it. I need to write. Something in me just needs to get these thoughts out of my head and onto something solid. Which, if one thinks about it, is a funny way to put it when talking about something written on the internet, which isn't a solid thing at all.

I have a journal, but I can't seem to write in it like I can write here. I make it a habit of not rereading my entry before I post it. I'd be tempted to change too many things. Hence, I don't use spell check, which I probably should since my spelling can be horrific at times. I can't really think of an appropriate end note for this, so it's going to be abrupt. For that, I apologize.

Wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. There is that lovely sweet smell coming in through the window. I pull my hands closer to my body, days like this are perfect. I see the rain falling, splashing into the streets. It's almost hypnotizing to watch. I'm safe here. I'm comfortable. I love it. I really couldn't ask for a better day. As I bring my warm cup of tea to my lips I think to myself, "how does life get any better than this?"