writing and reading nowadays...

I haven't been writing much, nor reading really.


I think to myself, what would anyone want to read that was written by me. And I stop there, because I hardly want to read anything I have written, why would anyone else. I don't even read completely what friends write, I merely speed-read. I try to think of something to write that I would be inspired by: nothing. Contemplative traffic-light moments seem mundane.


I am not inspired because I hardly read much now; if I do, I do slowly, inching forward in a few pages a week, or I glance through. My eyes are too tired, or the material is not provoking. A world of partial attention span, and too much light from the computers.


We could write about a lot of things: passion, love, hate or sadness, pleasure perhaps. But everything I feel now is very innate, very intrinsic, hardly spilling over into rapturous anything.


But I will try, which I did here, Elaine is still here nonetheless.