Having nothing particular to say.

Nothing particular to write about at the moment. And that’s when I like to sit down and write. Just let it come. Because that’s my favorite pastime. Writing. Maybe because it’s a way to relax. To glean pleasure from the moment.  To ignite the thought process. Of course, I can still think. Without putting it into writing. But that wouldn’t be the same. Writing helps me create a chain of thought. I can see it building. Link by link. I don’t know where the thought is going. But it helps to see where it’s been. And not yet fully knowing where it’s going. Now I’ve decided to retrieve a thought expressed a minute ago. Maybe writing isn’t my favorite pastime. Maybe I’d rather go for a walk. In the woods. Or along the Mediterranean seacoast. But that takes more time and effort.   Writing  comes easy and convenient. Especially when I’m at my computer. But all I need is a pen or pencil and a piece of paper. I can sit down, or even stand up, and jot down a thought. Maybe even an essay or treatise. Or the beginning of a short story. But the easiest thing of all is to write a piece for my blog. I’m averaging about 1,000 pieces a year. And I’ve been going at it for over five years. Something like 5,425 threads so far. The blog has evolved. Come a long way. In a sense, it’s become a psychological study. Of my mind. And life. Maybe I should call the blog a journal. But no, it’s a blog. An intriguing invention of modern times. A new way to write. In sort of a published way. Self-publishing. Some of you are strangers. You’ve stumbled across these broodings. Often by accident, I suppose. But maybe it was meant to be. Destiny. Our paths cross. Perhaps by grand design. That’s what I like most about writing. A way to promote a romantic notion. That one’s life is meant to be. To unfold in certain ways. Sure, maybe we have freedom of choice. We make our own decisions. But still, I have to wonder. Is everything predestined?  That’s my thought. For the moment. Meanwhile, I can hardly wait for the next moment. When I have nothing particular to say. –Jim Broede