just for me

Interlochen in the fall

Someone asked me what it was that I do for myself. It was a funny question because my constant struggle is not loosing myself in my work. I want to give so much of my time and concentration to other people, I want to have those conversations, and live in those moments, that before I know it, all the things that I love have gone by the waste side. There are things I need to do that make me a better person. I’m picky and finicky, when I eat better and work out and sleep, I’m better. When I call home and vent to my Mom I feel better. When I see my siblings, I’m better. When I remember to read a book and listen the news, I feel a part of something. When I remember something about the artwork I spent hours with in school, I feel smart and worthy.

But doesn’t really answer the question.

I watch TV for fun. I listen music to evade my own thoughts. I read because that’s what you do. I eat poorly because I eat my feelings.

What I do for me is much smaller.

My most selfish act is my writing. This right here, this blog, my journals, the internal dialogue of my mind, those are all mine. To immerse myself in words and ramblings, to find the time to put all of this on paper, to have minutes to devote to myself—those are the times I live for. To work on this blog, to build it up and share it, that is my favorite thing.

I’ve never thought of myself as a writer. I don’t read obscure authors. I haven’t read all the classics. I don’t spend hours in used bookstores.

But this, this is what I do for myself.

So maybe I won’t be an author. Maybe I’ll continue to write for the small audience that reads my stuff right now. But finding myself in these words, that’s the magic. And that I do just for me.

So, may the magic continue, for as long as you keep reading.