My friend brought something interesting up to me the other day when I mentioned that I had begun blogging (or making an attempt towards). I was complaining that I didn’t feel like I had enough outside of mundane events to share on a consistent basis to keep a blog running. Sometimes interesting things happen to and around me, but they often seem to be the sort of adventures that one would simply have to experience to appreciate. She told me she had run into the same problem with her own blog and quit writing on it months ago. The thing about blogs, she told me, is that what people are looking for are life lessons. Each post needs to be its own poignant little allegory, relatable to the variety of literary human existence. Good gracious, that’s kind of a feat for somebody who can hardly make sense of her own poetry. The thing is, I am learning something new from every day, but my understanding of it differs from day to day as well and to put any of this into words is, well I guess that’s where the magic lies. But I just don’t see my life as a collection of lessons, guys. I’ve always had trouble pinning down the details because I’m too focused on the bigger picture. Right now I’ve got this idea of a drawing, but I’m trying to sketch it on top of all the erasure marks from earlier and the charcoal is bleeding and the still life I started out with has rotted and the lighting changes depending on the side of the earth I’ve found myself on, so guess what. You’re just going to have to bear with me. I have very little to teach you, but a lot to say. And my picture may not be poignant and it may not be pretty, but I made it and I lived it, so maybe there’s something to take from that.