Why, then?

I'm not entirely sure why I write here. I could just as easily be maintaining an offline journal (which too I do sometimes) and not post online at all. But somehow, the remote possibility of it being read by a random eye here or there, gives me the feeling of release. I'm venting to no one and about nothing in particular but the physical act of putting down a bit of me outside of me, that I can read later and recall with, helps. And surprisingly, I'm totally okay with this being a mediocre journal. I don't write eloquent reviews of any books or places or even events in my life. Most of it is boring gibberish that sometimes even I don't understand. More often than not I find myself unable to articulate the simple, everyday stuff that upsets me. I guess some part of me doesn't want to record the bad stuff, lest it become true. I feel silly even saying this. My life isn't really that bad. There are undercurrents of all sorts, of course. Good, bad and only very rarely ugly. But there's a despondency that lurks around. There's fear of things souring and slightly debilitating stress of my immediate surroundings falling apart.