I don’t write about my personal life much anymore.
I have an anonymous blog. It’s elsewhere on the Internet, far from any servers or accounts with my name or email address attached to it. But I haven’t posted there in some time. I keep getting the urge, but it feels so… weightless. So inconsequential. It’s the same reason I don’t buy books for the Amazon Kindle – I don’t feel like I really have anything. I like the way books feel in my hands, the way the paper feels as I turn from one page to the next.
With that in mind, I’ve decided that as soon as I’m able to do so I shall be popping out and getting a nice leatherbound Journal in which to write things down. Something swanky, like my own Journal of Impossible Things. I like the idea of being able to pick up these weighty books at some point in my future and reading through my exploits. What did 23 year-old Ben do in his spare time? What did he really think about that girl he met on the set of “Greek” all those years ago? Where did he go to eat, besides Jack in the Box?
It’s a romantic thought. It’s probably also very, very silly, especially when you consider that my handwriting is so absolutely terrible that there are chickens out there who get all offended and uppity whenever anyone compares it to their scratchings. But it’s something I want to do. Something I’ve wanted to do for a while now. Considering I’ve already scratched off two of my lifelong ambitions in the past month, I figure it doesn’t hurt to go for a third, relatively minor ambition.