Why would anyone want to read about me?
It is a question I ask myself… one amongst many as I write snapshots from my daily life and memories from my past, as I share opinions and beliefs, the small adventures, the human fears… I can sort of understand the interest in the places I manage to visit, the old customs and stories of mysterious sites. I can understand the occasional flash of humour. But come on, says the niggling little voice, a nobody from nowhere… aren’t you just kidding yourself? Who wants to read about your fears and foibles, your little successes? Why should you be of any interest to anyone? You’re ordinary.
Maybe that’s the point. I am ordinary. My kind of ordinary… because it is the only kind I know. Other people are extraordinary in my eyes. They do things I have never done, achieve things I have…
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