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When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer. I think that, if I really sit and think about it, that always seemed a pretty obvious end result for me. I wasn't a "dreamer" as a kid. I was a watcher though. My description of invisibility sounds like some trite metaphor when I try to put it in text, so I won't. Just believe that it is entirely possible to be invisible. Literally.

Anyway, at some point between there and here the whole idea of being a writer (of what? who knows) evaporated. I like to say that I could pinpoint it. That it was an event. But it wasn't really. It was just a slow dissolving of something that wasn't exactly sturdy to begin with. It felt almost inevitable. Like something I was gladly shrugging off. And, because I never talked about this low-lying aspiration, I never really had to talk about the fact that it was leaving.

I sometimes think about that. I think about the fact that I stopped caring about writing. I don't think I have an audience, I don't think anything I have to say is actually interesting enough for anyone but a causual reader. I don't think that it actually matters to anyone other than someone who already knows me... and then only half of them. That's not a woe-is-me. The lack of focus is probably nothing but a blessing.

I do sometimes wonder though if it's one of those things that I should develop the ego for and then develop the skill. I take pictures with the same level of "oh but I'm not a photographer" and my photography is so much better than I will ever actually admit to anyone. Maybe if I just keep writing like someone who can't it will fall into place?

I envy writers. Not because they write, but becuase they don't know how not to.

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maddening
A Non-Newtonian Fluid

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