My Pamplona Moment
As a reader, I find my writing pretentious, stiff and I tend to use adjectives in groups of three for some odd reason. I shall, however, attempt to launch this Medium blog with the reader in mind, assuming that the reader is intensely interested in knowing what’s knocking around my noodle today.
In other words, it is highly likely I will be talking to myself here for some time.
Though I would love to write of interesting things, of things that make hipsters orgasm (cynically, of course), of smart and sophisticated things that attract interesting readers to the equivalent of what could be described as a cave I draw my ‘cave paintings’ in with big words I have to ‘Google’ for their definitions, I simply stick to what I know. I write about how things make me feel.
I am a pretty simple organism, I must tell you. Relying heavily on my senses, I feel my way through life in search of … nothing, really. Bumping up against the rest of the world in my daily drifts can be exhilarating, draining, healing or damaging. These energy exchanges have altered my course by inches and by miles. I simply exist to experience the ride, I think. I’m here to partake in my share of moments.
I figure, then, that chronicling the chaos here will motivate me to do so in a way that will make the reader consider the inner life as they bustle about with their very important and Medium-mini-bio-worthy lives. I posit that all that one has, and all that one achieves, is the product of the quality of one’s inner life. The reverse is simply untrue.
I don’t know what that last paragraph was about. Was that me trying to justify my reason for making use of the privilege of posting? Do people do that just before running with the bulls in Pamplona? I suppose they do.