the long way to go never shortens

I'm usually floating along on a writer's spectrum that ranges anywhere from "Why haven't I published a collection of every thought I've ever had?" to "No use adding more thoughts to the world's already overflowing sea of thoughts" to "Why would anyone, given the chance to read already acclaimed works, want to read about what I have to say?"

The other day I was disappointed to realize that a few ideas I wanted to expand disappeared in the relentless Idea Stratosphere because I never wrote them down to remember them. Then I wondered if they were even worth remembering. Then I chastised myself for harboring insecurities regarding something so subjective. Then I chastised myself for encouraging unconditional confidence.

Long story long, I find myself reading so many essays and poems and song lyrics that I identify with. Not only do I identify with them, but I'd like to try my pen at a few. But I get caught up in the dangerous Motive Zone where I wonder for what reason I present such thoughts. If happiness is only real when shared, are thoughts only real if presented for discussion? If I keep something inside, do I benefit from it? If I let everything go, what do I have left?

Meh. I need to purify the process. Expand the process. Never again have to answer the question, "Are you still writing?" with "I don't know. Sort of."