My Life Fits In A Cardboard Box

Talking with a friend the other day about my recent post Mad Professor I realized how much writing I have laying around, pretty much available for anyone if they got curious.  As stated in that post I've always got some kind of scrap paper in my back pocket and a pen nearby, you never know when something inspiring will catch your eye.  A lot of this stuff I never do anything with, folded up pieces of ink covered paper litter my life, they are my life.  In my locker at work, above my visor in the car, under the arm rest.  I've got notebooks of all shapes and sizes stacked up in the garage, and filling book shelves.  I have to confess, I think it looks good seeing a book I've written in sitting up there between to Thoreau and Whitman.  Maybe one day. 

I often wonder what would happen to all of it if something happened to me.  Would anyone read it?  I've got a lot of thoughts written down that I'm not sure people want to see.  Would people like the version of me they see?  It wouldn't matter, I suppose, I wouldn't be here.  Apparently I'm not that concerned with it, they still lay, strewn about my world.  I tell you though, it'd be like a puzzle for someone to figure out.  There's no rhyme or reason to any of it.  I don't date anything, I'm just not that organized.  Having a blog helps me in that aspect.

Maybe one day I'll do something with all of it.  I'm not sure.  I can't imagine just throwing it away, although I haven't looked at most of it in years.  I intend to write a book some day and perhaps I can use some of it for that.  I suppose it's possible my kids might want to look through it at some point.  I remember pouring over some stuff that my mother had one written, it was like a gold mine in a cardboard box.  If only she had done something with it.  I may not have the quality of writing she had but I have the determination she never could muster.