On Writing for Myself

As I’ve spent the last week or so writing, more or less daily, I find myself enjoying the activity, to avoid the word “task” and all its connotations, of writing, and just putting something out there, in the ether. I haven’t worked out why just yet though. Perhaps it’s because, after years of absorbing the works and words of others, I feel an obligation to reciprocate, but that seems somewhat trite, and a little too convenient.
In truth, there’s a part of me that simply enjoys assembling words in some form or fashion, somewhat meditatively, so to pour out the numerous thoughts that clutter my mind at all times. A way to put some sort of order to them, or at least, group all like thoughts together.

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