Third Time's the Charm?

This is now the third time I'm attempting to blog. For some unobtainable reason, likely hanging just above my mental reach, I just can't seem to accept the reality that I apparently have little of interest to say, as painfully evidenced by the string of abandoned blogs I've discarded by the wayside over the past few years. I guess that somewhere deep down in the recesses of my tortured psyche, the belief remains that perhaps I do have something to say. Please hear my inconseqential cries, indulge the amatuerishly existential yearning I have to express myself, however sophomorically cliched that sounds. Allow me to regale you with tales of nothing, as I quench that insatiable urge to waste more and more of my increasingly less valuable time. Laugh at my childishly composed sentences with their complete disregard for the most basic of grammatical standards. And pity, yes pity me, for a wasted and undeveloped potential talent. For depriving you, and the world of my insignificant contribution to the exponentially expanding blob that the canon of written expression has become. We are all authors, even those with nothing to say.

Partly I'm just hoping to improve, first off, my awful typing skills and in the process maybe develop what we writers refer to as a literary "voice." Not to be confused with the vocal expression of the same phonetic construction, no by "voice" I mean that elusive slippery thing, you know that thing that you have when your a writer, and by which your writing is easily recognizable. You know the thing. Well I can't adequately articulate it now, but that's because I'm just starting out and don't have it yet of course. But in the coming weeks and months, with subsequent and periodic updates and posts I'm sure that the "voice" will come to me. I imagine it to sound something between a whisper and buzzing.

Looking over the last two paragraphs, I've noticed that I seem to be channeling something of a cross between high school sophomore and Weird Al Yankovic and by that I mean a annoyingly self-referential and poorly ironic humor. That sucks. And I know it. I would prefer to be more earnest in my thoughts, genuine in my self-reflections, and perhaps through this effort( and it is a huge effort seeing as my typing really sucks) I'll manage to destroy the tendency in me that produces drivel like this. Cause I know that if I came across a blog like this I'd be pissed.

Where's the anger, the rage, the fury, that gives anything in my life meaning and existence. Something I've noticed before. I find it hard to rouse myself from the constant state of ennui and complacency unless I've got something to be riled up about. I wonder, is it like that for everyone? Or do most people find their everyday lives to be compelling, interesting and meaningful. How can I sustain the necessary amount of hatred and anger to move me, while still retaining an inner calm and zenlike appearance? Am I doomed to a life of unrequested, ambivalent nihilism? Do my adjectives make any sense?

I guess that's the great thing about blogs. They serve that dual paradoxical purpose. The blogger realizes that it might be a good idea to attempt to articulate his thoughts, especially since that would go a long way to helping him move forward, but is reluctant to unless there was the possibility that he would be addressing someone, and not just writing purposelessly. The blog maintains that illusion. We can believe that someone's reading and so feel an obligation to continue the project, and do our best to present the posts logically and coherently while simultaneously reassuring ourselves that in all likelihood no-one is.