I WRITE, I WRITE AND I WRITE....

Yes, I repeat, I write, I write and I write... For whom? For whom?
For me?
Most probably because I am the only one who reads me. But is it a good reason?
I doubt it!
I'm freeing myself from what's bothering me, finding someone to share the vicissitudes of my daily life with.

And that must make me happy because I come back to it rather regularly. However, this interlocutor is without a way, without a face. It makes me think of God.
Indeed, I believe that the world average is addressed to this word, since I dare not say this person or this character, let alone this individual. So, what do you think?

Where do I stand?

I have just started two new topics, one about feelings (which I don't have anymore) and the other about escape (which I cherish because it relieves me) and I am seriously wondering if this is all I have left in this life. I must admit that today, with the pandemic that we have been living with for more than two years, life is not what it used to be. And unfortunately we live with it.

The proverb says well 'to make against bad luck good heart' but there, it is a little too much! The bad luck has lasted long enough.
I think I'll stop and take one of these twelve books that I started to read without finishing any of them and see if it will change my morale, because it seems that it is not at its best...and with good reason

Reading may change me from writing, but I don't believe it.
And I have considered writing as one of the most beautiful arts. I have even praised it several times and I will be tempted to repeat it here.
I have always loved writing and continue to do so to the point that it has become a special outlet and pleasure for me. So I did some research to find out where writing came from and how it got to us.

I like to recall the words of an Auschwitz survivor, Paul Shaffer, who said that Only writing can preserve the memory of the unspeakable

Here, I just found the praise in question.