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I write because…

It gets things out of my head.

I like to write them (although technically this is typing, I do prefer using a pen and paper, but let’s face it, that’s obsolete) so that there’s less in there. A lot of things get forgotten, especially when you don’t make a note of them. So sometimes I write and blather on about nothing in particular. It’s easier on here because it isn’t like talking to a real person, there’s no social nicety involved. Well, maybe a bit. I mean… there’s an imaginary reader out there after all.. you wouldn’t be horrible to them (should that be I wouldn’t be horrible to you?)

Anyway. that’s it really. sometimes there are lots of thoughts (dare I say inspirations?) in my head, and some get out. At the end of the day, I don’t speak to grown ups very often at the minute. I’ve got to practice communicating somewhere. I had to have a grown up conversation today, with my boss, about my job role (or impending lack of) and somewhere in the conversation I started talking about how ill we’d all been. And my brain is sending the order ‘stop talking rubbish. now!’ and my mouth is just talking absolute nonsense. Which is not really that good. So, maybe if I return to putting the absolute nonsense here, less of it will come out of my mouth at random times? It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?

Anyway.. that is more than enough rubbish for one day, don’t you think?

Things I find in old notebooks

Excerpt from ‘Ode to Duty’ Wordsworth (1805)

Serene will be our days and bright
And happy will our nature be
When love is an unerring light
And joy its own security
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold
Live in the spirit of this creed
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need

I, loving freedom, and untried
No sport of every random gust
Yet being to myself a guide
Too blindly have reposed my trust
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray
But thee I would serve more strictly, if I may

Through no disturbance of my soul
or strong compunction in me wrought
I supplicate for thy control
But in the quietness of thought;
Me this unchartered freedom tires
I feel the weight of chance desires
My hopes no more must change their name
I long for a repose that is ever the same