Time to write for an imaginary audience... Usually I just write in a journal. About 95 percent of the time. And I'm an intensely private person when it comes to how I write in it. I go through paranoid precautions just to make sure no one reads what is inside. All of the perverted and neurotic little secrets that I carry along with me, that no one can know about. So when I write here, even thought I know most likely no one will read it, the dynamic is changed a bit. There's still that added possibility that someone could read it. I mean, there are so many out there, why would anyone want to read mine. I have nothing to offer except subjective dribble. I don't comment on others blogs, I don't really specialize in anything like health food or christianity. I am a lonely cab driver, whose sole source of entertainment is my own thoughts. Sure I'm social enough not to be considered a hermit, but just decidedly anti-social and disconnected. The only thing I could really offer is some occasional philosophical musings that may or may not be profound. More than likely it will be nonsense. Yet still, that little change has an effect on me. The awareness that I am deliberately writing this so that others may read it. Now it needs to be revised, at least once, to make sure there aren't any blatant grammatical errors. I can't help being a solipsistic bleeding heart though. I wouldn't want to stop that anyway. Maybe just write with a little more direction, and not repeat myself over and over. The addition of people into the mix means that your work will be judged. And maybe that's my fear which I assume I share with many.

For one thing, I most certainly want to work my way up to writing very intentional and topical stuff. Break out of the shell of isolation. Eventually I would very much desire to be paid for writing something, but I have a while till I should start worrying about that. I'm all about very gradual change. Moderation. Most of the time I like to tell myself that my life isn't as bad as it once was, say last year. I've totally matured more, I don't have as many logical fallacies floating around, I'm more outgoing than I once was, and so forth. Maybe I'm missing the point or something, because life never seems ideal. Always there's uncertainties and ambiguities, and I'm very lazy which doesn't help for anything. I rarely complete the day satisfied of my productivity. But it gets much darker than this at my rough patches. Where my journals read nothing but the most pure form of self loathing. Where I'm overflowing with every negative emotion. the most anti-cathartic activated, stuck feelings, that don't leave you graced with supply of endorphins and good sleep. But restlessness, insomnia, drug abuse, and endless tension and boredom.

When I say drug abuse, in my case I'm specifically referring to marijuana. I also take prozac and xanax (when I need it), but I don't abuse those medications. I'm pretty embracive with them actually. I do abuse pot though, which I guess isn't a big deal right now, but it will become one if I don't stop. I'll stop though.