This is post number two thousand three hundred and fifty. That’s a boatload of posts. I’ll readily admit the vast majority of them are meritless drivel, thought spilled from the mind of a man who’s confused and uncertain, manic and depressive, and philosophically challenged. That having been said, I am just as certain, if not more so, that I have written some pretty damn powerful words here in the years I’ve been posting to this blog. I’ve expressed joy and pain and I’ve written stories that draw me to tears. So I know my writing here, at least some of it, has value. When I read something I’ve written and find my eyes filling with tears, I know I’ve written something that moves at least one person to the edge of an emotional precipice. So, in spite of all the crap, all the throw-away whimsy and drivel and useless words, there’s material here among the detritus that means something. I seem to have a love affair with that word, detritus, don’t I? Yes, I do. I sure as hell use it a lot in my writing. And that’s one of the things I find absorbing about writing here. At least I amuse myself. And that’s important if we’re to stay, or get, sane.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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