These days I notice I do not read, but I always choose to write. These little poems that I can spit out in 15 minutes or less, short lines of rhyme or whatever you call it that capture a moment’s thought.

I can sit there and write a huge post on nothing but that I am writing to waste time, and yet I can be more interested in re-reading this post I wrote than in reading some great author’s old work of literature.

I can stare at my screen and look through all my old poems quickly and at a blink and think “Yeah, I remember why I wrote that. Heh.” And to me it’ll be the best thing in the world, a memory.

And yet I won’t read the things that some other poor adolescent soul shouts out into the world on a blog; I am disinterested in the diaries of those who I do not know, yet I keep my own.

It’s my claim to selfishness that I write about myself, stuck in my own bubble of self, uninterested in others, forever committing self-indulgent acts which do not benefit the better good of humanity.

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