I don’t write for myself. I don’t know anyone who does. Perhaps I have read the work of people who have, but I don’t know them. Even as I write this it’s with the expectation that someone will read this. The feeling is double layered. On top is the knowing that no one will likely read this; I don’t direct people to my work and I don’t want to. But underneath that is the hope that someone, somewhere, sometime, might come across it. As to what is communicated to that person, I don’t know and I’m not really trying to convey or control a message here. Perhaps it’s simply the possibility that someone will have read this thought. Perhaps it’s the thought that wants recognition; to be realized, as something more than fumes. Perhaps there is a hidden potential it believes it has; a spark or inherent combustibility that it could ignite in someone. Maybe it’s that it knows how short a life span it has, and in knowing so, it attempts to make as big a mark it can. Even then, it won’t last forever. Forever is a long, long time. But I guess that doesn't matter to the thought. Perhaps the thought is much like an egg with the potential to hatch, to live for a brief moment, until it can birth a new thing; perhaps that’s its goal, its reasoning. I don’t know, I just know that it felt good to write this.