For many years I have had a love/hate relationship with writing. On one hand, I fucking love it. Those closest to me know this well. Conversely, those same people see me struggle to write; writing is hard for me. The act of writing is easy enough. What I struggle with is the content; what can I say that is worth reading? My life is interesting to others but not as interesting to myself and so I never liked writing about myself or my life. Also: do people even care? i reckon most do not. Am I being selfish in putting myself on paper for all to see, to read, to critique, and ultimately judge? Perhaps. These thoughts can lead one down a hole, which is what I think has happened to me. Looking into the mirror, inwards, I realize I have more questions than answers–questions about life and living, questions about you and about me. “But I want answers!” However, I don’t expect to find the answers. Warning: if you are looking for answers look elsewhere. Otherwise, proceed.
So, here, I begin to write. I don’t know what I will write about. I also don’t know how often I will write. I just hope that those who do read this can find something to identify with–or not!– and participate. Say something. I invite you to join in on my travels and on my thoughts. Really, I am inviting you into my life! Oh, and I’ll try to throw some pictures in there to derail you from the (boredom of) words. Pictures are nice, aren’t they? Yes, I think so.
Thanks for reading,
Hugo, aka Chido, aka Dinoman