Was he crazy?
I am not sure who asked this question. It’s legitimate to ask. I have been working on this blog (and another one, for that matter) for over four years now. Is there much to show for it? Am I crazy? In a time of everyone being able to blast out text … in a time of radio shows having a blog or a podcast … celebrity therapists writing to thousands each week … And I am just writing. Who is reading this? I don’t know. I only see the stats of views and visitors and likes and comments and countries and continents and referrers and search engines. From all continents and countries, do the viewing and visiting – and maybe reading – and the liking and commenting. Leave a trace. For me – and maybe for all of you – it is good to think about writing once in a while. To reflect. We learn best when we take time to reflect. Reflect on writing.
Writing used to be a lonely affair. Thomas Mann had certain hours of the day during which he would retreat to his study and write. Nobody allowed near. Children tip-toeing. I am writing once a week. Wherever I can sit with my laptop. Every week. I don’t make it every week. To the writing group in the early morning. The writing feels fractured. I write slowly and have to find the time. More time, because I write slowly. Only a fraction of what I think about ends up being written. Not all I write, you can read. Fractured. As I said. Or is it? Fractured? For some time now, I write for this blog. This is not fiction. It is my reality. Texts I want to build up and out. Texts I want to collect. Thoughts I want to structure. On complexity. On change. And then ending up writing about AI. Often. AI and again AI. But that was just recently. Before that I used the other blog for practice. Writing practice. Was he crazy? Yes, I am asking about myself. Am I crazy? Just practicing and putting it out there? Soon after having written it. And most of it. The personal. The fictional. The poetic. The raw and unpolished. Practice in public. Reflect. Who reads it anyway? You tell me. Are you reading this? Writing is a lonely affair. These days. On the computer. On the interweb. Funny word. And an even stranger place, when I write. And strangely familiar. A place where you can read anything. Are you reading this?
Maybe it is not fractured. It is small. And small again. Similar. Sometimes self-similar. Fractal. Aren’t fractals beautiful? Will many small make one large? Not fractured? But fractal. Similar. Self-similar. And connected. Like a tree. Naturally grown. The structure of the veins of a small leaf are similar to the structure of the twigs and branches of that same tree. Fractal. Complexity.
If I am not crazy, the little texts will fit together and form an intricate blog. Over time.
Was he crazy?
Panta Rhei Enterprise 