Honesty is always the hardest thing to spit out. Writing the
truth takes courage. You have to be
shameless and, at times, quite careless to write down what is really
happening in your mind and then share it…. share it. Doesn’t the word “share”
sort of imply that the reader is a willing participant in the matter of
receiving information? That the reader, in fact, wants and accepts the possible
bullshit that he or she is about to read? People should never “share” their
thoughts--assuming that others want them-- instead they should expose them
while waving a casually stretched middle finger in the air to those who do or
don’t want to know what is on the writer’s mind. This is one of those times—whatever
you want to call it: sharing, exposing… this is your warning.
If you’re looking for a light and airy post on fashion or
romance or what I ate for lunch, then stop reading right now. This isn’t the
post for you. When I started this blog, I began writing on the premise that I
would be revealing. I would be honest, candid and real. Over the last 2 years
I’ve kept this promise on occasion; divulging momentary parts of my life and
head space that are at times a bit embarrassing to think that I let strangers
in on. But, there have been many, many posts that I’ve been vacant from. Although
the images or music, etc that I post have some meaning to or affect on me,
really they are only a fraction of what is likely happening in my life.
I’ve been questioning the purpose of this blog lately. It
started as a personal project—a sort of exhibitionist’s diary that morphed into
something less personal over time. To be honest, I hate it sometimes. Blogging
is not like riding a bike. Blogging is like diet and exercise. It’s a lifestyle
that can be tiresome, time-consuming and self-indulgent.
I didn’t start writing for the sake and enjoyment of other
people. It was always something deeply personal. Then I wanted to get a
reaction….I wanted to hurl my words out into the world to see happens…hence, the
birth of the blog.
It kills me a little sometimes to think that in order to
increase followers one must appease to the typical reader’s desire to see
pretty pictures or skim text five sentences or less. Don’t get me wrong. I like
looking at pictures too. I guess it just frustrates me when I know I could use
this blog to express something more significant at times and then I don’t.
So I’ve reached the point of thinking fuck it –I’m in a
slapdash state of mind these days and no sense representing myself any
differently. There are times before I hit “publish” I hesitate putting the
truth down on the page because my heart is in my throat (likely will happen at
the end of this rant), but let’s face it, the truth is the only thing worth
reading.
So here’s a hefty dose of the truth. I’m stuck. I’m locked
in love, lust, like and well, mediocrity at times. All simultaneously.
Sitting on my bathroom floor night after night after I
get home from a bar, dinner or just being out I slam words into my keyboard
hoping that I can look back at the sentences and turn them into formulas…maybe
then I can begin to make sense of things. I’m trying to chase dreams that my
mind made up but I don’t know if these dreams are actually mine or spotty bits
of an unfiltered subconscious.
Chase the dream? Don’t chase the dream? Damned if I do
and damned if I don’t.
I write to remember the moments--to immortalize, remember
and eventually draw from them—but I have to remind myself that there are people
attached to those words. And every word from someone’s mouth was fueled by an
emotion that was influenced by an event. There’s so much I want to publish, so
much I want to say, but I’m trying not to exploit my friends, foes and lovers. I’m
trying to figure out where the line is and how much of this blog should be
commentary on reality and what should be left private. Should everyone be notified
out of common courtesy that nothing is off limits or do I show some modesty?
So that’s today’s pickle: an existential writing dilemma.
Check back tomorrow. Maybe there will be some pictures.