The point of writing (whether just for yourself or publishing it) is to document what you do, why you did it, and then reflect on it to see how it went.
And it’s also to make sense of the mess. Your mind is full of random thoughts, things people said to you 6 minutes ago, 13 years ago, 4 seconds ago, random memories, that time you dropped your ice cream when you were 4, smells, noises, just a total mess. Writing is one of the things that makes your mind go from this:
‘It’s just a ________(whatever)______’:
The only stuff that matters is the stuff that’s alive
It also is one of the most effective ways to look back on what things have been important to you over a long period, conclusions you put great thought into and came to in the past, and reminds of what’s important, particularly when your emotions get the better of you.
So just like when Chunky destroyed the remote about a year ago (I never replaced it and it hasn’t been a problem at all), a couple days ago he jumped off on the bed and chewed and damaged my bedsheets. But just the like the remote, it does not matter and it has no value.
The thing that is untouchable to Chunky is pretty much me (or my housemate). And I’ve never heard of dogs self-terminating themselves. And I’m pretty sure Chunky ain’t about to be the first.
Living things. The only things that matter. Every thing, he could chew his guts out. Everything else apart from matters shit.