Iced Coffee and the Penetrating Colorado Sunshine

I was recently asked by a curious new acquaintance; when I am writing, who do I write for? Who do I write for? Good question, was my response. Perhaps for my suffering ego which sits ever so pretty up on her tin box– looking down upon me with her unsavory grin, the occasional sneer waxing prophetic across her unapologetic face - or for that boy sipping an espresso and playing guitar in the corner – the one I have yet to meet, yet earn for ever so righteously, as if I am owed his eventual presence in my convoluted world – or for them – in hopes of some skewed sense of understanding of a life purpose I can only even convey to myself in twisted dreams and brief striking moments of self-realization ... Really? Do I have to write for anyone? To my adoring public which encompasses all of... four perhaps? Some of my closest friends and the random slew of drop-ins who are captivated by comings and goings – waiting on edge (I am sure) to see what I will come up with next - if I will fall or press on, ever diligent and determined in this ever-more-complex web of whispers and shouts in which I weave. Honestly, I think I write to amuse myself – to keep me occupied (or out of trouble) as I find myself having far too much free-time.