Why?

     "Why?"  Dad said it was the first word I ever muttered (before Momma or Daddy).  I suspect that is an exaggeration based on a lifetime spent answering my never ending litany of questions.  I find that I still ask the same type of questions, it is just that now it is almost totally rhetorical. 

    Today I was spending some time day dreaming.  I do this often.  The usual mental exercise involves the mental gymnastics of what I would like to convey to whomever is currently center stage of my thoughts.  These mental correspondences are letters conveying something that at the moment seems germane (although more often than not the thoughts are never committed to paper....or even email).  The second (and perhaps more frequent) type of mental exercise involves this very forum.  Things that seem to be of personal significance just require purging.  Strange way of saying it, but it fits. 

    Why publish anything?  Why not leave the thoughts buried in that fertile but safe graveyard in between my ears?  I thought it was a good question worthy of some further analysis....  Yes indeed, why?

     I wonder if even the greatest authors have wondered "Why would anyone give two shits as to what I think?  Is there a snowball's chance in Hell that I can have a thought or opinion that is truly original?"  Why do we read whatever it is that we read (discounting that which we read because it is mandated by the hopes of further employment)?

     I am not a great writer.  Obviously.  I have read that there are professionals that in some form of professional self discipline (or self flagellation) demand of themselves a thousand or so words a day.  That just would not work for me.  Whatever I write is motivated because the thoughts demand expression.  To not give voice to whatever it is that demands release would somehow diminish that which is my existence.   As tears are expressions of emotions more powerful than words alone can convey, this format has become essential to my being able to somehow continue to define "me".

     We have all been made aware of those rare people who can in fact create verbal "art".   Abraham Lincoln was such an artist.  We all have our personal favorites.  The artists that created something speaking to some greater truth or ideal.  They help us see, and take ownership, of that which defines and elevates us.  In that process they perfect all of humanity.

     As thousands of hobbyist paint without any hope of being remembered as a Picasso or Rembrandt, but take satisfaction in the expression of their own  vision, I will continue to write. 

     Does it matter that few will ever note what is written here?  Not really.  Not to me.  Oh, there are a few that might gain insight as to what I think (and therefore the man I seek to be) in reading what I write.  But there is no personal need.   It is essential however, that I find means to express, and therefore acknowledge that which defines me.