It is still unclear to me if the compulsion to write for me as well as for others, here or elsewhere, is good or bad.
I’ll try a step by step approach: I am a human being and as any other beings I have and I have the need of a social life. Writing is one of the paths used to engage, or try to engage other beings (basically humans given the common language).
Religions or religious expressions are defined as exhaustive systems of values, practices and ideas which have the ability to create an environment where humans can achieve their potential beyond the empirical cloud of material or physical life.
I cannot see in the near future a time when I would dismiss the existence of another life for myself or others, a life other then the visible, palpable one. This not necessarily for religious or ethical reasons but because of a stubborn appeal to common sense: as long as I can long for one (other life) there should be one, in any form it may be.
According to Sam 
I often find myself asking the same question in the mirror. And then something happens and someone appears from somewhere and reads what I wrote and says something that makes a difference. And that helps me feel useful. The need to write has been there for many years now, but it started in private (I don’t know about your case. how did yours start?) and it seemed enough for a while. Then the interaction with a certain reader came in the way and internet entered my world and so here we are.
But you know what? Even when writing diary I imagined (and people usually do) an unknown reader, someone who knows them and understands them, a kind of twin self or a soul-mate lover, or someone similar. You don’t just write for yourself, I think people always hope they are going to be read by someone someday and be understood.
Not to mention that there are writers or bloggers who obviously write for readers but don’t leave the impression they talk to anyone or even want to hear their thoughts.
It has always been a passion. Writing. And writing to.
welcome back.
you already know.
Correction:
Even when writing diary I imagined (and people usually do) an unknown reader, someone who knows and understands me,*
Mr.. când ne mai onorați cu prezența? Că nu prea avem ce citi prin blogosferă în afară de vreo 2-3 scriitori. 🙂