I’ve never read a blog.

Good thing that’s not a requirement for writing one. I’ve read articles, of course, but I’ve never found an entire blog that I’ve been that interested in.

This is not a judgment, there are just a lot of blogs out there, and millions of good writers, and I don’t have the time to search through them all to find the one that appeals to me the way I need it to, the way that this one does.

I have always loved writing, but, until recently, I didn’t do it much because it was required for a purpose outside of the act itself, and was graded for it’s efficacy. “I look forward to meeting you, and having the opportunity to join your team”, or “in the interests of peace...”, or “I understand, and I wish you the best.”, Or “I regret to inform you that I will be leaving your employ.”

Lies. Or half truths at best, most of those. Too many concessions.

One of my favourite bits of writing is a resignation letter. I’ll post it some day, edited, to protect the innocent. I love it because I finally had the balls to be honest, really honest, and I did it in my personal style, which is carefully crafted sentence fragments stitched together with an abundance of commas, like Frankenstein’s monster, recognizable, but not conforming to the writ. It felt so good, not just because I wrote as me, but because I also ACTED as me. I was honest, I wasn’t mean or overly petty, I stood up for myself, and I fucking walked THE TALK.

Talk is a funny looking word when it’s typed out in all caps like that. It’s origins aren’t that exciting, 12th century middle English for tale, which makes sense. Tale’s origins are somewhat more interesting in that they’re not latin, but hardly worth recounting as it would interrupt the flow.

I like little boxes. I like big boxes too, but I spent so many years building and fixing them for people that I’m done. But I do like to put things where they belong, and I appreciate when those belongings are organized in a way that is accessible, and makes sense to me. In the tumult of my mind, all my myriad little boxes are bobbing around in the chop as often as not, and they become a little difficult to manage and arrange if I’m just swimming around with them. So, to continue with my metaphorical flogging, I built a jetty, a place where I can go, as me, to be me, and open whatever box has washed up on the beach today, and express myself in a way that I can proudly own and live with.

And you’re there now, with me, in Thought Collector.

 Thank you for your time.