There’s a certain hubris to thinking other people want to read our thoughts. Our ramblings, the peregrinations of the mind. It’s like thinking people will want to smell our farts and lifting the sheets in an anticipatory manner before they’ve even climbed into bed.
What did I do today that’s worth reporting to the world?
I know, I’ll write a poem.
But the grit and the gristle of the Timbuk tree
Did mar the sights for you and me
as we strode down the avenue so jauntily
going ah wee, ah wee a wee wee wee.
There. That’s my creative endeavor for the day.