Why is it, some days I can write three entries and others (like today) I can find absolutely nothing to write about? It has been a dry week. I suppose my health plays a large part in this, but crap. I don't like that excuse. So until I can find something worthwhile to say, I'll leave you with something I read yesterday:
"Maybe a half a dozen people in the world really appreciate what you think and do. What then does it matter about the rest? And as for that half dozen—is there any need to convince them? If they are your sort they accept you without the proofs... In the midst of one's work, in the midst of the best intentions, in the midst of doing good for the world, or making the world happy, etc., one begins to have the gravest doubts. One has to find out whether one is acting because he wishes to do good or bring happiness or spread truth, etc., or whether it is out of egotism or compulsion or auto-therapy that one is acting. In other words, the ground gives way under your feet. That is where I am. That is why I give way to inertia. I'd rather not act than act out of false reasons."
(Henry Miller in a letter to Anaïs Nin, dated September 19, 1942)
Why is it, some days I can write three entries and others (like today) I can find absolutely nothing to write about? It has been a dry week. I suppose my health plays a large part in this, but crap. I don't like that excuse. So until I can find something worthwhile to say, I'll leave you with something I read yesterday: