Small thoughts; Selectively permeable

Today, I was wondering why I bother to write about the trivial matters of my life or endlessly rant about the trivial thoughts I'm having. This is live, but I don't always... okay... ever make it interesting to the reader or even worth being read another time, by myself. I guess that this form of expression is kind of for records, partly for communication, maybe to hear myself talk, but mostly cathartic and somewhat masturbatory. Well, I guess masturbation and catharsis go hand in hand. If you tell your ideas to yourself, they'll be well-received; existence validated. A piece of paper or a monitor is eternally receptive. Better than a best friend. Unless, of course, you have a best friend that loves to read what you write. And, of course, unless your best friend can write back to you, and you can't wait to read it. Ah, now that's true love.

Sometimes I remember that I had suffered from pneumonia some years back that had put me in coma for several weeks, a spot was found in my right lung. But I am alright now. Eversince, I suspect that I might have a slight hearing problem ( I don't know how this could tie-up); or at least a problem deciphering unclear speech and sounds. It's not a big deal, except for I say, "What?" when people are mumbling. It's definitely not serious enough for a hearing aid, and I think it's more of a cognitive thing than it is purely auditory. When I finally woke up from my long sleep, I got into a bad depression as I already have memory lost which the doctor advised as "selective memory". The hearing thing had also become like "selective hearing", I was told later.

So, for lack of a reflective material to shine myself upon, I'll happily take this tablet. Here I go again: Someone recently told me that I come off as emotionally detached; I've been outra-specting (new word) to find what the meaning of that is and whether or not it's true. Then, I can bother with what it implies and whether or not it's bad.