I was re-publishing old posts on my new blog platform today, reading through them as I went. A part of me felt so silly, these very beginning days of sharing my life seemed pointless and immature. It made me wonder if what I wrote today was still as undeveloped and random. Probably. Truth is I kinda like it that way. I never want to approach writing as a marketer, or as a platform for being noticed. I just want to write. I love building community around stories and remembering my history. Without these in the moment feelings jotted down, as revealing and embarrassing as they can be, I wouldn't accurately recall these moments. I couldn't so vividly remember how it tasted, felt, smelled, what it sounded like, or how it occurred. Memory is a fuzzy thing, always changing in our minds as time passes.
I ask myself, do I keep doing this? What is the value to others? If it's only for me I could just be journaling in my little diary, holding onto those things myself. But something tells me, even though I don't entirely get it, it's just something I must do.