But what I mean is that my blog fails to capture my essence, my persona, my chaos, my vulnerability, and sometimes my joys. The way I think, the way I feel. The way I react (and sometimes overreact) to things. The way I fantasize and the way I dramatize. Let’s face it, if you came up to me on the street and asked me to explain myself, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I would stammer and my tongue would fight with my brain for control, and in the end I would babble inconsistently about irrelevant issues and possibly the Great War, which I have no concrete knowledge of, and which I took no part in.
I plugged in the power cord of my old computer today. Logged into windows, entered my super secret password that everyone in my family knows, and was instantly pelted by a staggering desktop. Files, files, more files plaguing the desktop. Scattered everywhere but the Recycling Bin, stretched out wherever they pleased, as if looking for the place where the LCD monitor shines the brightest. (They will need a tan where they’re going…)
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| Not my actual computer screen, but you get the idea. |
But I just opened up a simple folder on my desktop called “Misc Files” and then this directory appeared before me:
---MISC------------------------FOUR more directories, one “New Office Word Document”
---MISC DOCUMENTS-------TWENTY more directories, 102 spare files
---MOM MUSIC---------------music I never, in my life, plan on listening to.
---MISC------------------------FOUR more directories, one “New Office Word Document”
---MISC DOCUMENTS-------TWENTY more directories, 102 spare files
---MOM MUSIC---------------music I never, in my life, plan on listening to.
---New Text Document.txt------nothing. Perfectly blank.
The reason I bring this up is because at one point in my life I knew exactly where each of these directory led. Just think, this was only just one of the many possible directories I could have opened. Think of all the sub-directories and sub-sub-directories, and then all the extra files that come with them. Once, I had a purpose for every file and every folder and at some point I had spared a blank “New Text Document” from suffering eternally along with the masses of unwanted files stockpiled at the Recycling Brim.
The reason I bring this up is because at one point in my life I knew exactly where each of these directory led. Just think, this was only just one of the many possible directories I could have opened. Think of all the sub-directories and sub-sub-directories, and then all the extra files that come with them. Once, I had a purpose for every file and every folder and at some point I had spared a blank “New Text Document” from suffering eternally along with the masses of unwanted files stockpiled at the Recycling Brim.
I opened “MISC DOCUMENTS” and I found at least ten more of these files. New Text Document (2), New Text Document (3), New Text Document (4)—some blank, some filled with my rambling, some I cannot remember ever having written, all of them personal expressions I have shared with no one.
Why were they ever created? What purpose did they serve? What purpose do they serve now? No purpose at all. I should just delete them, right? All of them. It’s not like there’s anything worth keeping…well that’s what I thought until I started digging through them, opening them up one by one, scrolling up and down, and realizing that at one point everything I had written resonated with me. At one point I had the thought to create them, and even worse, had acted on those thoughts, solidifying them into the archives of my old computer. At one point in time they were important to me, or at least I felt they needed to survive.
So much so that I made a folder, and then another folder within it, and titled it “New Text Document (6)” or “Grouding” or “Harassment in the Garden” to save my thoughts. To save them before they escaped my brain, or my heart. Or maybe it wasn’t saving that I was doing at all. Maybe I just wanted to hide them. To protect them. To protect me. From anyone and everyone.
It’s funny how you can read something you wrote so long ago and the emotion is still there. Like you just finished creating it. You close your eyes and you can imagine the aroma of your tea cup. It flutters around you, tantalizes your good senses, and you swear you’re still there, at the height of your emotion, living in the moment. They turn you back into who you used to be, piece by piece, until you can freely walk among them, indistinguishable.
So much so that I made a folder, and then another folder within it, and titled it “New Text Document (6)” or “Grouding” or “Harassment in the Garden” to save my thoughts. To save them before they escaped my brain, or my heart. Or maybe it wasn’t saving that I was doing at all. Maybe I just wanted to hide them. To protect them. To protect me. From anyone and everyone.
It’s funny how you can read something you wrote so long ago and the emotion is still there. Like you just finished creating it. You close your eyes and you can imagine the aroma of your tea cup. It flutters around you, tantalizes your good senses, and you swear you’re still there, at the height of your emotion, living in the moment. They turn you back into who you used to be, piece by piece, until you can freely walk among them, indistinguishable.
I am proud that I have so many works available for self-perusing. I find myself curiously engaging with myself. Prodding him. Asking him questions. Belittling him at every turn, commending him with others.To tell you the truth, I am just as much ashamed as I am in awe for having written them. They scare me. Confuse me. I curse them. I don’t want anything to do with them. Some of them were channeled from my darker self, others from my lighter half. All very personal. All very secret. All very embarrassing to me. Should they ever see the light of day, I would be ruined. And then I ask myself the question, Why not?
It’s a good question, actually. Why not let it see the light of day? And my answer is: you’re right, what is the worst that could happen? Well... people could find it strange. Is it still worth it? Yeah. Some people might be shocked. Worth it? Hmm... Some will laugh. They’ll say it’s stupid. Worth it? Well…. Some may grow to hate you. Worth it? Ummm…. Or maybe somebody will connect with it, and say they can’t believe that someone else has thought the same way, has felt the same way, or has felt so differently. Worth it?
Yes. I think it is.
This summer instead of writing new blog posts every day, I will be posting something from the days of old. There will be no order, just as my computer has no order, and just as I feel like my mind has no order. They will appear in their original forms with absolutely no changes done to them (except for meddling with some minor spelling errors). I’ll admit that I’m taking a big risk in doing this, but I feel like knowing who I was at one point in time can give you a glimpse at my entire persona instead of just taking what you see into account as the truth.
This summer instead of writing new blog posts every day, I will be posting something from the days of old. There will be no order, just as my computer has no order, and just as I feel like my mind has no order. They will appear in their original forms with absolutely no changes done to them (except for meddling with some minor spelling errors). I’ll admit that I’m taking a big risk in doing this, but I feel like knowing who I was at one point in time can give you a glimpse at my entire persona instead of just taking what you see into account as the truth.
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