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.