You

 I am thankful for you. 

The ones that read these words. If I were simply typing away here at my keyboard without the occasional thought to who might be taking a peek at what I'm crowing about, this would be a very shallow enterprise indeed. 

Such is not the case. Instead, I am gifted with an audience. A group of mostly well-wishers who seem to hang on every syllable, even when the ax I am grinding is getting a little tired. 

I am honestly not attempting to try your patience. This is what goes on in my head, and I believe that if I did not share it, I might find other less socially responsible ways to spread my thoughts around. I'm thinking spray paint here. 

No need for vandalism currently. I am content to go on and on in this spot until someone tells me to stop. And then I'll pause for a moment before going on and on again. Carving out a few moments each day to gather the wool that becomes the very small sweater you see before you every morning is a priority for me. Because a long time ago someone said they liked it. 

Imagine that. There was a time when the kids in my class were my audience. I found a way to responsibly get their attention without blundering into the class clown chair. I was an author. I managed to impress a few teachers along the way too. I wrote clever stories and anguished cries for anyone who would pick up the paper upon which I scribbled. 

I started to get the feeling that this was not "normal." Which was fine by me, since I have never been comfortable sitting directly on that mark. And I feel the need to tell people about it. Anyone who will listen. 

Or read, like you're doing right now. I'm thankful for all the appreciation I have received for this simple trick that I do, and all the patient reminders of when I have meandered into the wrong lane. You make this happen. Otherwise, it's just a journal. And it's not like you don't have your own thoughts, for heaven's sake. You just get to take mine along with you.

Thank you for that.