I’m not sure what it says about me, that I pick up a Murakami book (What I Talk About When I Talk About Running) and immediately decide to start writing. I suppose it’s how easily conversational his text reads while just slightly glancing into the influential and profound that gives me the “hey, you can probably do something like this” thought. Not that I fancy myself a writer of any kind at all. I just think there’s value to be had in logging thoughts in a format a bit longer than a mental note, tweet or other kind of social media post.

And that’s part of my problem, I suppose. I wasn’t halfway through the chapter before I stumbled upon a line or paragraph that hit me in a certain way that I was compelled to share it. “This really feels true. Should I put this on my Instagram story? Post a tweet?” And that urge didn’t sit too well with me. It smacked of a hollow vanity. It’s that kind of mental bruise I encounter any time I share something on “social media”.  I’m not knocking people who do that, though. I begrudge it more because I believe it’s led to a shorter self-attention span on my part.

Which brings me to why I started writing this. The word count as of this sentence is…two hundred and thirty two words. Had to do a little sudoku on that bit, where was I? Right, word count.  200+ words is far longer than the average Facebook post or any tweet (although still a few shy for Instagram considering the exchange rate on words-to-pictures). This is honestly the longest continuous bit of personal writing I’ve done in years.  I guess I’m trying to be more meditative without the quiet stillness (though I’m typing on the loudest keyboard I’ve ever owned so that might dampen my zen). I’m hoping to exercise my concentration and get more of my self clarified. Like a consommé. I’m not expecting some kind of ultimate wisdom or self-help nuggets to come out of this. But maybe just getting started with three hundred and sixty three words might be just what I needed.