Blogging isn’t easy. Sometimes you have no idea what to write about, other times you do but it comes out as something else altogether.
Today is another one of those days when I have nothing in my mind other than empty space and the knowledge that I have so many things that I should be doing that I really can’t spare the time to write about nothing. But today is a Sunday blank, so here I am writing about nothing again.
I sometimes think that an empty page is like a newborn child. At first it has nothing upon it – pristine, clean, white and pure – and then someone comes along, begins to make marks on it and in the process makes it into something else. Its personality changes with each stroke of the pen, scribble of the pencil, or stamp of the key. Some pieces of paper become letters (love, hate, blackmail, complaints), others become lists (shopping, to do, household budgets, favourite foods), and others become short stories, poems, essays, music notation. A piece of paper can go anywhere, turn into any number of things; and so can people.
I guess that what I’m saying is that I wonder if we are the sum of what others write upon us (how we are treated, the music we listen to, the interests we take up, our friends, our enemies, where we are born). It makes me wonder if there is any self at all. Maybe we are simply a mixture of learned behaviour, experiences, and influences. Perhaps we are just random marks upon pieces of paper inside our minds.
I wonder if that makes each of us a book?