There is one bad thing about blogging – it’s hard to be who you really are. It still turns out as an act, it’s a public display, you go out and share with anonoymous masses something that is in your head. And you try to SEEM who you are, you just can’t BE. So you read your lines several times before finalising them, try to guess how different types of people might react when reading your thoughts, you feel you care about some opinions and don’t about others. You are not with yourself anymore, there is somebody reading over your shoulder.
Today I went through the folder where I keep some private letters to myself. They are written with one breath, words appearing on paper as materialised thoughts. Passionately. Angrily. And then silence. Everything said, nothing to add.
The artificial perfection of some essays in my blog are presented in these letters in a natural way. Genuine moments, the details of the emotions caught and preserved without any editing or analyse. I read these letters and see things that were hidden the time I put the thoughts down, a pattern I could call “me” becomes clearer.
But in my computer they make no connection. I know I'm not alone, but left like this the impression of separation grews stronger. And if the connection through my blog comes in a way, that has been overlooked ten times before published and where the core of the author is hazy, the connection can not be real at all.
Well, it’s not about only writing in my blog. It’s about living. I don’t want to live my life acting or trying to be.
I just want to be, naturally.
Everywhere. Too much drama in the world, worrying about unimportant things. Trying to seem more yourself, bring out the things you think is you.