Yourself?

I don't know why I write,
nor whom am I writing for.

Is it to preach? To other people who think like me?
The converted, who would not bother to dig down into the meaning of my words, but assume it to be their own?
And they ladle praise, heapings of it, presumably on my writing, but in actuality, on the similarity of our thinking.

Is it for pleasure? To read my words years later, and derive a masochistic pleasure, from reviewing mediocrity from years ago, and being cheered up at the thought of the improvements I've made. Is it an innate sense, to leave a mark where it may lie, in the hope that one might just stumble upon it, in an uncertain tomorrow? Man's desire to create fate?

Or is it just a natural human desire to share? That alien brain that exists in all of us, bursting to get out, to share it's thoughts with the millions of other brains out there, in an orgy of foreplay and sex, the constant reproduction of the thoughts that so gripped us and drove our behaviour. Do we write, to convince others of the validity of the path that we've taken, and encourage others to follow our footsteps, in the never ending, never ceasing loop of software running the hardware.

Perhaps writing is just the pursuit of longevity. Not the physical body, but the hope that the mental self would be passed on, like a person mummified in the pages of a book, influencing the future generations, who'd pick up the book, be converted, and decide to continue your work.

posted by Downhere. @ 11:50 pm