It is quite amusing to me to see how many blogs (yes, I’ve been blog surfing again) consist of just one post – supposedly the first of many, but perhaps lying forgotten in the world wide abyss – laying out the writer’s personal rules and in some way attempting to excuse the very action of blogging the first place.

More often than not it goes like this: (text [subtext])

Here I am, (name), writing my first blog [isn’t this exiting]. There’s not really any reason for it and no one is ever going to read this thing, but I have musings each day and I want to send them out into the Internet void [I have a narcissistic tendency, just like everyone else writing a blog, and hope that perhaps someone might stumble across my ramblings and appreciate them, which will be good for my ego, and if not I might read over a post or two in a couple of years and achieve the same result.] I’m not going to write about my family or my work or my love life or my political views [I’m really going to talk about all those things, especially my political views and how much my family hate me] but instead I see this blog as a way of expressing myself creatively [I see this blog as a means of further justifying my existence]. Well, were in the twenty-first century so I figure I need to move on up the technical ladder and so here I am [I’ve really wanted to start a blog for ages now but couldn’t figure out what to write about]. So watch this space for news about me [who am I talking to?]

It reminds me of starting a new diary when I was little. I don’t think I ever got more than half way through a diary. Invariably I’d write religiously for a couple of weeks, forget about it for two months, write a bit more, fade out and let it sit in a drawer somewhere. Perhaps a few months later I’d decide to keep a diary again but—as you do when you are quickly maturing into adulthood (or at least teenagehood)—you can’t believe how immature you were back then and you like the idea of starting afresh, so off you go to WHSmith to buy yourself a brand new diary, full of endless possibilities of blank pages entreatingly enclosed in a very secure locked clasp (which, of course, can be opened with any number of those tiny paper-thin keys attached to girl’s diaries). Back to the point: there was always that tendency on the very first page to begin with a statement of purpose. My name is. The purpose of this diary is. I intend to write ____ in here because ____. Full of intention, of course.

I could make a depressing leap here and say that life is often full of those first-page diary statements – full of good intentions to start afresh and live like you intend, and which you might stick to religiously for a while, but which gradually blow away on the wind.

I keep saying I won’t do that this year. But there are still intentions I have and I’m still not finding time for everything.

Do we ever find time for everything, though? What would happen if we did? What blank would ensue if we ran out of intentions?

Well didn’t I end up on a sunny note!?

Time for bed.