And then some days, I just don’t write at all. I spent all my time at work today reading, it didn’t occur to me until I was leaving that the site had gone just about all day without any action at all. Sometimes I worry that days like this means less people will come back tomorrow. Sometimes I worry that posting too much, too fast will keep people from bothering to read everything I write. Sometimes I worry that i shouldn’t even consider whether or not or who or how many people are reading what I write, or how much of it, or any of it. Other times … It’s all I can do to stop thinking about it.
The blog is so … self aware. So post-modern. In some ways it is like a journal, but by its very nature of being online and totally public to whomever finds it, it is not. I suppose that in some ways, that really frees one up to write, knowing that their lives are on public display; maybe for most people it’s the other way around. For me, it just helps keep me more honest all the time. Honest and open. I don’t want to find myself lying to people, hiding parts of my life or my feelings, or only sharing them with certain people. I don’t really believe that privacy exists; anything I say, ever, can certainly get to the ears of anyone I don’t want to hear it. So only say things you don’t have qualms about being heard, and don’t even bother trying to hide any part of your life because it will be found out.
I remember when this occurred to me, it was as though a great weight had been lifted, and I had been shown the way to freedom from some of the weight that the world wanted to put on me. We are all trained that certain subjects, certain aspects of life, certain ideas, are simply not done, and if done not spoken of if we ever care to “get ahead.” Like the idealist I am, I say I don’t want to get ahead if that is the price.
I used to have such wonderful stories to tell. So many layers of brilliant imagery that covered up or confused the sparse details of my actual life and feelings. I was a great storyteller. Getting the facts straight about what I had or hadn’t done was a fool’s game, since what was said was too vague and suggestive to come to a definite position. Most people simply assumed whatever they assumed the best to be true, and then they were on my side since they made my side theirs. it worked out pretty well.
Except I lost track of what was true and what was fairy tale in there somewhere, lost track and started believing my own lies, half-truths, and fanciful exaggerations. Have you ever been lost in your own mind?
Nowadays I don’t have so many good stories to tell. Small remnants of the old histories still floating in my mind, permanently fused to the bits of truth I can remember. Once in a while, you’ll get lost in the tale of something that passed before, and if the story seems a little short, missing a few details, you’ll know its because you’re hearing a version of a much better story that has had the outrageousness cut out. You’re hearing the boring truth of my life, told as though something interesting had happened. The enthusiasm comes from the once great story, but some part of me doesn’t know the story isn’t great any more.
Some part of me still believes my story is a great one. The rest of me is trying to believe that my story is simply looking forward to becoming a great one.