Writing is my thing, among others

...

So, to be honest: I know there are people in this world that really like what I write, once in a while. There are people who find comfort in my life, my opinions or my stories. Probably the same as I benefit from the writings others jot down. Occasionally.

So, again, why don't I write more, for others.
What to write about? My life? My knowledge? My opinions?
Blogs for instance. To let others pick my brain while I'm not even around.
Or a book. To let others pick my brain even more.

When I wrote just spontaneously about anything that popped up in my mind and soul, people loved it most, and could even learn or benefit from it.
No strategy. No plan.

So I better continue that writing style.

On the other hand: why on Earth do I even want to write for others? Why do I even have the urge to ALWAYS come back to this place to throw around some words, right into the world? With no idea where those words will fly or land...
I suppose it is because I do benefit myself, from my own writing. I need it somehow. Not for others, just for me. How strange is it, that I don't write down stuff in some sort of diary, that I can't even stand that... It's so bad that I can not even persevere writing a journal, not even when I HAVE to...
Then why on that same freakin' Earth do I feel the pull of this medium 'writing'?
I somehow need it.

I love to do so many things! I need to do so many things. To just feel alive. I am even able to do so many things!
All of which don't need as much thought as writing, or as many silences... Silence. So rare.
I thrive on thinking.
I can not find silence.

Maybe that's it.

- probably to be continued too -