So this is turning out to be a bit like a blog. I've never written a Blog before. I kept a diary once but my other self read it and didn't like what I'd written about me. We had a falling out and I stopped talking to myself for a while.

Blogs are strange things. Who reads them? Nosey folk? People who have unfulfilled lives and are seeking enjoyment in other peoples? I don't know. I don't care. I don't expect anyone to really pay this one much attention especially after reading that first paragraph but as a wannabe writer I feel like I have to write something every day. Maybe a Blog might help me.

Writing is a strange thing. I have a love hate relationship with it. I hate writing; I love having written. The reason I write or draw or make friends out of rubbish is a simple desire to connect. I find a terrible loneliness in being human. We are these sentient, intelligent, wonderful creatures that have thoughts, feelings and ideas that are so much more than just instinct and impulse. They float around our heads like elusive little fairies waiting to be caught and played with.

But that's where the problem is.

They're in my head.

No one else can see exactly what I see. No one else can know what I'm thinking or understand exactly how I feel. We can get close to people, we can communicate our thoughts but essentially we are all alone in our bizarre little worlds.

And it's rubbish in here on my own.

When I write a story or draw a picture I release part of my head. When I describe a scene and put it on paper it becomes a tangible image for someone else to read. Suddenly others can see what I see and think what I think and, if I'm really lucky and I create something particularly great then maybe, just maybe, they might even feel what I feel.

When that happens it makes me happy. It is rare. I don't think I'm even remotely good enough to achieve that yet, but maybe one day, if I keep practising