Sometimes I think whats the point?

It's dark and chilly and summer has not made known her heat. I am in a sweatshirt after an evening stroll with a tired husband and a band of deer as witness. It's my way to question this new life. I don't go easily to places that seal me in dirt and whip me with hair across my blood shot eyes.
So I write out my journey and I post it on social pages and I get absolutely no comments of any kind and I think "what's the point?" You hear of Bloggers who tear up the worldwide web with their brilliance or whatever magic they spin to make a million readers come and listen to what they have to say. I am lucky if I get one comment or one person following me. Yet I win awards and get published and sit alone in my new "normal" land of discontent and long to sit across a table breaking bread with a fellow writer and share our sonnets or our stories among glasses of red wine and checkered table cloths that lay across my grandmothers old table.