I don't know why each of my posts takes so long to write itself. I look at people around me, my friends, colleagues and acquaintances, and they churn out posts at an envious pace. They may not be prolific, but they're at least regular. And I write. I consider myself to be a writer. I don't mean that in the sense of "I write/have written for newspapers, magazines and the like, and someday in the future I will make a career out of being a writer." I mean that in the sense of I have always preferred writing to speaking. Every time I want to express myself, my first instinct is to pick up a pen.

And yet, I don't write often. I observe frequently, want to communicate frequently, but rarely am I compelled to share whatever I'm thinking. I don't feel the need, or rather the inclination, to share my thoughts with whoever is out there. I don't know why, since I know that the people who will read this are my friends and loved ones.

Even now, as I type this post out, I'm tempted to shut the window down and abandon the draft. In fact, I did a couple of days ago. As I type this 'word,' I don't know if this post will end up getting published. Is any of this of any value?

But even as I ponder this existential question, I think of things I have wanted to blog about: my teenage cousin, turning 25, the worthless quality of my job, living in Montreal, and so many other little moments. So many sad moments and so many happy moments.

I don't know how to end this. I should write out something profound, shouldn't I? Or can I? This post isn't complete, and yet I know there's nothing more to it. I'm done for a while. At the rate I've been going, I'm done for the next six months. But maybe I'll feel compelled again. Let's see.