Here's the deal.

In case you haven't already noticed (baha!), I don't write for profundity. Not because I'm shallow or incapable of deep thought, but because I have a tendency to dive into years-long depressive slumps if I think too critically too often, and/or if I censor my creativity to produce only the sort of thing that others will find interesting, important, innovative, or any number of other multisyllabic words that begin with 'i.' I write compulsively, not for others' validation or personal catharsis, but to maintain my own little sense of homeostasis: what I produce is shaped by me, and in turn whatever I write reshapes and reifies my sense of internal being--even if it's just a list of mundane ideas that I flicker through while dozing off to sleep. While my blathering bloggery may not impact anyone but myself, and may not make a brazen world more golden at any socially significant level (as Sir Philip Sidney once claimed poesy is capable), writing and recording--even my pinkest and bluest and most simplistic thoughts--has a way of solidifying my life for me. Which is why I'm here, typing this shite on a daily basis.
This shite which I so love to type.
Any bit of writing has the potential to germinate into something much larger and more beautiful than itself; there's no sense in self-censorship for audience approval. Write it all, I say.
Write anything.