A blank page. This morning when I thought about what I would write about, nothing came to mind. That is not altogether true. Nothing came to mind that I thought would be clever enough or good enough or whatever enough to elicit likes, followers or comments. That got me to thinking, why was I writing? Was it for me and if so, how was it for me? For the kudos I would receive, for the recognition that someone out there read my blog and knew I was there. Ah, the AHAH moment. Why do any of us write, or for that matter do anything? Are we doing it for the recognition, or because whatever we do has to be done, for the pleasure of it, or because the relentless voice in our heads will not go away until we do. Does anyone really know what we are doing here or why we are doing it? (Chicago's song, "Does anyone really know what time it is?" has popped into my head). There are plenty of people out there who claim to know, none of them have resonated with me. Their truths are not my truths and my truths are changing all the time. I remember being in one of the "truth boxes" and when I stepped out of it, lamenting the fact I had stepped out and wanting to go back in, but as in the movie, "The Matrix", once you take the red pill, there is no going back. But what if the blue pill is the truth? Depends on which truth you embrace. There are plenty of red and blue pill realities plus a plethora of other colors to choose from. Nothing really to write about today except questions of the Universe that have no answers.
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