hear me now.


let's just pretend i have something worth saying, and you're reading because you're genuinely interested. you're not just reading because there's nothing good to watch on sunday night. you're not just reading because you can't, for the life of you, get into that f. scott fitzgerald novel you borrowed from the library, and you've already read the latest people and new yorker magazine cover to cover. you're reading because you've come across a stranger's blog, and you are interested in what i have to say, even though i have nothing interesting worth saying.

you've followed me from americorps to unemployment to a boring desk job. you've read every single word i've published, and you're not sure why. maybe you kind of know who i am. i'm a friend of a friend, maybe someone you've met once. you feel like if you keep reading, there might be an end, an answer, some closure. you read, and you never comment because really, what else is there to add? how does one comment on nothingness? maybe you read because you identify with something i've said. maybe you believe we are on the same team.

it's strange, though, isn't it? there are hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of other blogs out there. yet at this moment in time, you've chosen to read this. it's similar to the time you had the big realization, isn't it? that maybe there isn't structure or fate or destiny or whatever, that things are just random. you just happened to find this page, and now you're reading. and true, there were times when i had something to say, some important message, or some story worth telling, and you read that, too. but most of the time, like this time, there's nothing. you're just looking at words and processing them for the sake of dong it.

i've kept at it. for over three years now. i've written as abundantly and personally as i could manage. and what will become of it? because i haven't capitalized letters, or bothered polishing and revising entries, because i've just written aimlessly and with no purpose at all, most likely nothing will come of this blog. i don't know who these real writers are, the ones who get their stories published in magazines and books, the ones with writing samples that get them into prestigious writing programs, the ones who can pepper their stories with words like effervescent and adjudicate.

but still, you read. and i like to believe it's because you think the story will go somewhere, will have a decent ending. i started this blog in february 2007 after seeing victor villasenor speak to a full auditorium at watsonville high school. he talked about how writing was a sacred act, and i believed him. at the time, while working with foul-mouthed teenagers, i found that there were very few sacred acts i could engage in. so, i started blogging. and part of it does still feel sacred. when i was a kid, i prayed to god every night before i went to bed, but i've since stopped. i haven't prayed in a long time because i don't know if anyone is actually listening. but here, at least when i began writing, i could at least count on a handful of people listening.

the truth is, i don't know what i'm trying to accomplish here. i really got into this blog when i was unemployed because it was something to do. i wanted to feel like the world hadn't forgotten about me, and i wanted to prove to my friends and family that i was still trying, that i still had hope and believed in myself. but after a while, i just couldn't stop. and maybe it was a good thing, too, the way it made me go out and seek adventure just for the sake of having something worth writing about. but lately, i've been feeling like i want to have an adventure just for the sake of having one.

maybe when i'm finished, i'll take up praying again.

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