I now have the internet, there's no excuse

I'm going to give it a go and see how it goes. I seem to have a lot of time on my hands already. It's crap having a job and crap not having one. Feeling a bit hermetically sealed. My spine feels like that too, must be the bed or the new life.

I used to write all the time. Then I ran out of things to say. Or I realised no-one was listening, so what was the point at all. Books and books of void thoughts, embarrassing and good for no-one.

I'm glad I started reading last week. Words churning is always a good thing, but strange when you find yourself writing a word you would never say, such as deduce or hermetically.

I thought I was dying today. Not in a 'I've not too much time to think' way, more like, 'why am I finding breathing a bit of a, chore?'. I've had a lot of tension in the solar plexus area which I kind of thought was a myth that actually didn't exist, but it's on Wikipedia and does exist and is something to do with all the muscles behind the stomach, in the spine etc. The diagram was too small. But it sounds like it can be to do with emotional stress, but also really symptomatic like feeling sick, having pressure in the chest etc. So basically a combination of the awful bed and the giant cookie and coffee I had around 2pm. I don't seem to process sugar too well these days, seems to make me feel sick or lightheaded.

So what would be the point in a blog? And is there any point if you don't tell anyone? At least with the handwriting there's some sort of brain-hand process going on and it looks like you're writing A Book. And people go 'ooh what are you writing', and you go 'nothing', and look really intelligent but rude but still intelligent, and the truth is you're actually writing NOTHING. Just like this.

When handwriting, scribble shows you took something back. You don't know that I just spelled something 'soemthing', then went back to change it. Or that I changed 'spelt' to 'spelled', as isn't spelt a grain?

So the diaries were different, in that I was documenting thoughts on art, my place, my ideas, bitching about annoying people and making anal lists. And then noticing myself writing about soemthing (I left that one in on purpose) and commenting on it. And thus showing my age, the time, and it all was rather embarrassing. But it was never premeditated. I just wrote stuff. Like this. It taps into somewhere in my head where I believe myself, and there is clarity. And sometimes it's nice to listen to that, and think, you're alright.

Can this writing exist without a purpose, topic, or destination? Will it evolve or will I ever even tell someone.

That will be enough for now.