Just to give you a heads up, I’m pretty undecided about this whole “blogging” business. I mean who are “you” anyway? Am I so pretentious as to assume that people actually care what I think?
I’m undecided on that, too.
PS: I ramble a lot…. I’d like to blame it on the coffee. I usually have about 4 cups a day. What can I say? It tastes good. mmmm……
anyway… I like the “idea” of a blog. I’ve always been one to write my feelings down. I by no means would call myself a poet, but I always wrote viciously until my emotions returned to normal. There’s something reassuring about actually writing something down. I guess it has to do with leaving evidence that you felt something, that you were there. There’s something comforting in knowing that years from now I can go back and look at what I wrote and still be able to muster up some of those feelings. Because at the time, whatever it was WAS important. And it MEANT something to me. In a world where we are all taught to suppress and resist our urges and emotions, it would be a great shame to simply forget those times when we DID feel, when we DID cry.
And this is where the whole blog thing gets messy for me. I like journals. I like the careful choosing of the pen and the folding back of the pages. I like feeling where tears have warped past entries or where excitement almost jumps off the page. I like to see how my penmanship changed with age, maturity (which don’t necessarily correlate) and feeling. And I like the fact that once I write it down, it’s there to stay. I can cross it out, but the evidence remains. It’s like the hard copy to my life. The back-up file to my emotions and memories. With a blog, I can edit and update. With the click of a button I can wipe away any evidence of my anger, my rage, or my elation. There’s too easy of an escape hatch. If I make a comment I later regret, I can delete it. Done. Simple. Gone. But my feelings remain. By not expressing myself because it’s out there for people to see (which is my own blasted fault, since it’s MY blog) I’m lying to myself. And that’s not why I write. And I like knowing that it’s there, beneath the mattress of my childhood bed until my parents or I clear it out.
But that’s the thing. It’s there. Under that mattress. I might forget about it. I’m certainly not conceited enough to think that my innermost thoughts and ponderings on the world warrant a passing glance, but a tiny part of me (and perhaps because I’m only human, and humans by nature are vain) wants to offer my thoughts to my peers.
And so here we find ourselves. Hopefully, you (I still don’t know who that is yet and I feel foolish typing it as though I’m talking to my macbook) have made it through my semi-coherent ramblings (I warned you!)
I am curious though…. Is anyone reading this? Does anyone care? Probably not… but then again, I blame this whole thing on the coffee.