And where do we go from here?

And where do we go from here?

Which is the way that’s clear?

Rock On, David Essex.

It’s pretty hard to know how to continue writing a blog, after the death of my much-loved brother. It’s hard to feel motivated to write, but then again, it’s hard to be motivated to do most things at the moment.

And if I go on writing this blog, what do I write about? I am unable to think about anything else at the moment, except the fact that apparently my beautiful brother has died.

I was already floundering at how to continue writing, after the death of my friend Dori. Dori was a good friend, and she used to read my blog and comment. On the other hand, my brother John never read my blog, nor even probably knew what a blog was. Nevertheless, after 33 years of being in my life, his absence leaves such a significant and painful hole in it, that I can’t proceed  without stopping to ask why I would even want to continue writing a blog at the moment.

I guess that the question for me is why do I write this and what do I get out of it? Do I think that there is anyone out there regularly reading my blog, not because they know me, but because they enjoy my writing? Not really. So I guess I am mostly writing it for myself.

Like all bloggers, I just enjoy writing. Writing helps me to reflect on life and shape my thoughts, and try to make some sense out of life – or find the nonsense in it, as the case may be. I enjoy trying to craft a piece of writing into the best piece of writing that I can, even though I know that most people only read it because they were searching for “air supply pictures,” or “slimy monsters”, found my blog, and will probably spend 60 seconds, if that, scanning a post to see if it’s what they are after, before they move on.  Even though I write it for my own satisfaction, or need, I enjoy the challenge of trying to write the best piece of writing that I can, for that casual, one-time reader.

So I’d like to be able to go on with it.

I’ve never felt such a need to try and make sense out of my thoughts, which at the moment, spiral wildly around, trying to find meaning where there is none, grasping to find reasons where none exist. At the same time, I know that is a fruitless task, that there is no sense to be made out of the untimely death of someone I loved, no matter how much I may reflect on it or write about it.

After all of that, though, I’m not going to write anything about John, not  just yet anyway. I am reluctant to try and sum him up, and loathe to even begin to talk about how I feel when I remind myself yet again, that he is gone. Apparently I will never see him again – that is what I am supposed to understand.

So this is where I will leave it, for now. In some other more flippant time, I might have noted that, just like a character in a Beckett play, having thought it through and  determined that I will go on, I’m going to stop.

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