Writing is a habit.

I guess it figures, being as I love to read. But, it’s more than a habit – it’s therapy. Something that I’m finding more and more necessary in being able to cope with what’s going on in the world – and in my head. I’m not even sure I’m doing anything good or right by this writing “need” I appear to have. I’m not even aware that it’s doing anything for me. It might be the worst thing ever – I wouldn’t even realize it. So, can you really even call it…therapy?

I just last week finished filling a red Moleskine notebook with these mental rants and such. 100 months (non-consecutively) of my life and its random jottings. I’ve always thought that when something happens to me, my writings would survive and tell my story. Not that my story is worth any more than anyone else’s story. Really, nobody is going to give a flying fig about me or my life. We’ve all be desensitized to humanity by this very medium – the internet. We all do it.

I’m climbing the walls right now. I need a new notebook and I can’t get to the store to obtain one until later this afternoon. So, I’m turning to this forum. TBH, it’s not the same. If I write, it’s only me that sees it. If I type here…well, I don’t know if anyone pays attention to the ramblings of a depressive guys who’s not sure if he’s make to the end of the week.

Nobody gives a shit. Why should I?