true love

i wonder why i write; it's a constant mystery to me. and i am not a great writer or poet or other such thing ... i just find a certain fulfillment in writing ... there is the expectation of the outcome and the release once it has been completed. many things i write and keep to myself--whether in the labyrinths of my mind, or in a private blog somewhere ... others i think about writing but never do ... and others i write and imagine that out there there is someone in some other country who casually comes across what i have written here and says something like "oh, i thought that too" or "how lovely" or even have a violent reaction to it and say to himself, "what crap" or just browse it and catch a word here or there and something sparks or quite probably just ignore them as they go about their search for something out there... ha, maybe i write out of some sense of vanity ... but really, i like words... how you can craft them into anything --much like play-dough ... and i like the sounds of words ... sometimes i just write for the sense of the sound ... and words i just accept them for what they are ... they don't do much... the reader chooses what to do with them ... the writer chooses what to do with them ... the words just are ... they are a conglomerate of sounds to which we have chosen to give meaning ... though they have no intrinsic meaning nor value by themselves ... much like monetary units.
i think i have at last found the true love of my life ... letters and spaces on a page and the sounds and feelings they may evoke.