a pleasure in writing

I wondered this morning:
what's the point of writing if it has no impact on anyone, and more than likely, no one will reads these words. Is there a pleasure in writing for one's own enjoyment without the external gratification of a reader? There must be.

Is there purpose to all this? I'm torn between wanting to feel like a "normal human" who craves human contact and the natural, relative loner I tend to be without effort. I love to write, but really I've no clue what's worth writing and what isn't...and also, how could I even be the judge of that? WHO actually is the judge of that? I'm not sure.

It's quite possible, maybe even obvious, that I am the creator of all these questions, that I am fabricating my own anxiety thus I have option to detach myself from these issues. Maybe I should try.

It's Saturday,
June 6th,
it's raining.
It's warm,
but humid.
I've completed the Semester with three C versions and one loosely given A.

The Summer is ahead of me. I have no plans.

 First beach visit of the year. It was what it always was: everything I needed to begin the Summer.

 I loved this day.

 Photo taken by the Pier near the world Trade Center. I was there with Sean Langhaus.

Photo taken near the pier along some cobble stone streets I've never seen. There are so many parts of New York I have never explored.