Why do I write? I alternate feeling confident and talented with being a directionless lost soul. Oddly, the opposite of "what's the point?" doesn't seem to be a point. It's rather being in a state of not caring if there is a point, or in being so arrogant as to believe that I have something to say that has the prospect of having value to some unknown future reader.

This has always been my biggest obstacle in maintaining a journal. I can seldom, even in my most egocentric state, wholly believe that what I write is going to be of any significance in the whole scheme of human life on this planet.

And it isn't. This whole realm of existence is no more significant than fingerpaintings on a fogged up window. One swipe, and it's all gone, along with everthing that we thought was so important. There's only one thing that lasts; that is eternal; that really matters. I bet you think you know what it is. Maybe you're right. I'll let you think so.