My mind is full of the dumbest, most useless information. If only I could crowd out things like my first high school boyfriends' home phone number (seriously.....why is THAT still in there?). And do I really need to remember which clothes were hand-me-downs from the neighbor and which were Christmas gifts from my great-aunt and extended family? (Connie, I really did appreciate the clothes, I promise.)
All joking aside, this is what it boils down to. I'm afraid to forget the important stuff. And in case you haven't figured it out yet, life is short and fragile (even if you live to be 100). People are gone in an instant and those memories are all that's left. So I write to help me remember the sound of a voice, the smell of a kitchen, the feel of a truck seat, the taste of a kiss, or even the once-annoying bird outside a window (he always woke me up at grandma's house).
So whether anyone else cares about my writing or not, I'll continue. Some of it will be senseless. Some will be sad. Some will be thought-provoking. But at least I know WHY I write. Another lesson learned.