Why blog?

Why do I write this blog? It doesn't seem to bother me that no-one is actually reading it. In fact, I find the idea of the internet world, in theory, having access to it, very weird. But it's not a diary, either. There's something to do with the potential of someone finding it and reading that I like, whether or not it actually happens.

I partly write it as an affirmation. All around me, people are tired, and stressed, and rushing about. Children are causing problems, parents need care, there's not enough money. No-one seems to have time to care for themselves. I'm not talking luxury weekends away here, or expensive massages. Just basic care, of basic needs. Allowing oneself to exist in the midst of it all.

Allowing for creativity is like clearing away the dead leaves. There is death and poverty and injustice and suffering. And there's also the pale blue of sun-tinged sky, the feel of purple angora rubbing against your fingers. At the Edinburgh book festival a couple of years ago, Ben Okri said something about the world needing enchantment. I suddenly understood that it was not escapism, or selfishness, to want to use your imagination. To want to sink into the velvet complexity of a jazz chord. To find yourself breathless at the way indigo soaks into red....