I am finding when I read a bit of a lack of interest when I read. I am having a hard time discovering that which interests me in the books I read. And I read all sorts of books. When I look back on it the books I enjoy reading the most, perhaps, change from time to time. A few months ago, I enjoyed the Harry Potter series and The Silmarillion. After that, I did not much enjoy anything, and I suppose I am still sort of in that place. If I am being objective the thing which I enjoy most is the reading of psychology. My favorite book right now is Allan Schore’s “Right Brain Psychotherapy”. In it, he discusses how he learned to enjoy his life but also to sink into depression in his life as well. To not simply lift oneself out and attempt to feel good.

I do find in my life a lack of direction when it comes to what I write. Of course, when I write I have a theme and a similar style and whatnot, but it is not that which I speak of. What I speak of when I mention the above is, I have no clue what to write and I have no idea how to write in a way I would find enjoyable to read. Like, if I were you, I am not certain how to make you interested in what I write. Rather, perhaps I know but I do not wish to do it.

But if I am being totally honest it really is a mystery what turns me on right now. Hedonistic pleasure no longer does it, not after, and still am being in such a fulfilling and tender-filled romance with my fiancé. I have come to the other side of that stuff though that’s not to say I don’t desire the occasional affair. What I mean is I do not know what about writing interests me except for the truth. I desire to be a better human being. And by that goal, I read scientific shit. But by that very admittance, I am disqualifying the very thing which I do. (Haha!)

Anyways, being honest with you about where I am in my life. I don’t think I would enjoy reading this. Anyways, the things we think about others. The things we think about are our own interests. Constantly judging that which makes me whole, always seeking my own sadness because perhaps it offers me comfort.

Of course, the goal of writing is to produce something worth reading. To discover what is worth listening to one must read others and note what attracts them to whatever they read.