Nobody Will Sit Next to me on the Bus...

I don't really want to blog. 

I want to write!

But blogging can be writing.  It's like a diary that's online, where you just jot down your thoughts and broadcast them into a vast ether so everyone can see it.  The very opposite of privacy. 

I want to write, but I have nothing to write about.

Of course I do.  There are always things to write about. 

Thoughts bounce around my head.  They are so clear, so lucid.  But I try to catch one and can't.  Especially when I've managed to get somewhere where it can be recorded or described. 

It's hard.  It's something I just need to work around. 

Promising thoughts die in the translation to text.  The proper word, easily described in the mind, has no verbal equivalent.  Being tripped up in this way, the thought dissipates like a stale fart. 

Thoughts can be translated.  I just happen to profoundly suck at it. 

So are my thoughts worth recording in the first place? 

Maybe not. 

But how do I know unless I try? 

Can't these thoughts be improved once they're out in the open?  Under the harsh critical eye of...an actual eye? 

Build an idea in layers, like coats of paint.  Each coat covers an increasing area of a wall, and it looks better and better as the color fills in.  Until you've got a pleasant room.

Or one that's putrid.  But at least it's a finished putrid.