It feels like a compulsion, a nagging itch that I can’t seem to cure buried away deep under my skin. Sometimes I’ll scratch and scratch and scratch at it until it’s raw but the desire is never fully sated.
I’ve tried ignoring it too, pushing it to the back of my mind in the hope that somewhere, somehow, my subconscious will figure it out for me.
I’ve fed it sparingly at times, hoping that would be enough to keep it from bubbling to the front of my brain, I’ve tried to starve it, hoping it might die off quietly. I’ve tried to force fed it, filling it with every tiny moment I can, but that just felt cruel.
I should apologise to you, dear reader, but this seems to be a habit I can’t break. It ebbs and flows but it’s always here, the desire to write and post. At times (like now) I feel like a phoney as I flag you down to sell you my wares only for you to discover upon your arrival that all I’ve got is an old button and a dog-eared copy of Little Women with some pages missing.
Of course I’m not actually sorry, from the outset I’ve always maintained that this blog is for me, no-one is asking you to read it, let alone visit it, and I’m happily resigned to the fact that I’ll continue to post here in the same sporadic quantity and varying levels of quality.