Why I Blog

A friend told me I was "living the dream": Struggling writer, one-bedroom apartment, in a foreign land. The stereotypical, the usual.

I write the banal: articles devoid of emotion. Pieces where editing for length is easy, because nothing really means anything to me. That writing is cold, detached, my foster-works, adopted by me under the "creative" sway of corporate invention. The words mean nothing, cutting them is easy - these are no children of mine, they can fit in any mold, I couldn't care less.

Something has to pay the bills.

So I blog. I write what goes through my head, my own stream of consciousness, put down with the tap-tapping of a keyboard. Words with some meaning, at least to me. I blog because I have to put it down somewhere. Mrs. Dalloway bought her own flowers, Nashira will write her own meaning.

I've sold my soul, but something has to pay the bills.