I hadn’t blogged in awhile. I guess I feel like nobody would really miss me, anyway. When I started this hobby, it was because I needed it the way I needed journaling. With my thoughts, anguish, fears, and hopes written down, safely captured in black and white and bits and bytes, I could stop the swirling emotions and wide-eyed fear that I’ll miss something life-threatening or -enlightening simply by forgetting to process it. And then I could sleep again, the record perpetually tangible and accessible for future mulling over. Yes, it sounds insane.

I read an article the other day about how journaling stimulates both the left analytical side of the brain, as well as the right creative side. Just 20 minutes of journaling a day reduces stress and anxiety, helps memory, improves intellectual acuity. Jotting one’s thoughts down is far more beneficial to the mind as a whole than something like crossword puzzles or number games, which only exercise the left side of the brain.

As my need for anxiety- and stress-relief waned and my social life picked up again, the blog posts got farther and fewer in-between. But I kept on blogging as much as I was able, finding a few minutes here and there, because I had created a world of readers and friends that I enjoyed entertaining and communicating with through Cindy’s World. I met people I never would’ve run into in real life, nurtured and tightened friendships that distance and busyness would’ve otherwise tested. I found value in my blogging as my online presence seemed to be even beneficial to some other people.

And then I lost internet access at the place I spend the most time at in front of a computer. Blogging became far more difficult, but I still tried, thinking maybe my words would be sought after, if for nothing other than entertainment purposes.

I’m not sure that’s happening anymore. As much comfort and convenience as I had derived in the past from being able to look up records of what I’d done on a certain day, or do a search on this blog for a specific topic for future reference (such as a restaurant whose name I couldn’t remember but know I’d gone to for a specific occasion that I’d blogged about), I am seriously considering stopping. I’ve long since lost my need for creating these records, and it seems people have lost their need for my writing. I will always, however, value what I’ve written up to this point. Anything I write becomes my child. I am reminded of a phrase a college English literature professor once quoted, although I had been too poor of a student to pay attention to know whose quote it was: Cut these lines, and they bleed.