300 Blacksheep Bleats

Hello, Reader!

When I had begun blogging, somewhere way back in 2005-6, I never knew I would stumble upon such a towering instance of blogging instinctively a decade hence. I went through a lot in these ten years, 2005-15. A decade called life, if we were to put it simplest. Today, reclined over my notebook -- a gift from yet another of my earnest listeners (she insists I read out my blogs to her) -- I am buried in a sense of revival. What is this ultimate phenomena? I write, you read, I write more, you read along?

Do I inject something each morning after having brushed my teeth to write? No. Why do I forget my own pieces? And yes, it is offensive to be so forgetful. Yes, but I don't know. What goes on inside my right-brain cells? I really don't know. What triggered a story, a letter? Well, you know it -- I don't know. Having confessed a series of negatives which I am sure you will all believe, please also believe that if there is the certainty of one thing which keeps me going, it is the consistency of your reading. Pieces must have fallen short on standards of plot, characterisation or language, they may lack the elevation that art demands, but your readership. It is the one thing that has led me on. Your unfailing love. For a serious commitment-phobic, you have caged me in my own creativity. It is a good thing. 

When I was very, very young, a schoolgirl, I think, studying in class two, I had this deep intention to see my name in print. It evaporated somewhere in the race named career, thankfully only to return. I wish for it to emerge now, victorious. I owe it to you. And you. And you, and you too. Does it sound a blah, a bleat? It too, is a good thing. This. 

Thank you for reading.

I wrote, I didn't bleat. Maybe I bleed. Words.