There is a odd thing I have noticed about blogging. It leaves me feeling strangely egotistical.
It's not just that I'm writing about myself, but the way in which I write. The fact that I share with you things that I have not shared with people over the course of my life; I wonder if you can appreciate that fact, or do you assume that this is the way I am?
I am not.
I have had friends from childhood come and read and tell me, "I never knew any of that!" to which I reply, "Of course you didn't. I didn't talk about it."
I don't talk this way to casual friends, and I have very, very VERY few close friends. The fact that this blog is anonymous (except for those of you who know me) leaves me free to open up in a way I never have before, and I view it as a gift, both to you and to me.
Each time that I rip open a part of me that I could easily have left hidden, I wonder if you feel it? Does it touch you?
And those ugliest of scars that I bare, do you see them as I see them: as offerings of jewels laid before you?
In a world stuffed full of delusion and hatred and fear, is my raw and sometimes brutal honesty appreciated? Whether you agree with it or not, do you appreciate it?
Some of you comment, some of you write in and tell me so. But all those lurkers, I have to wonder what goes on in your heads. Are you reading and scoffing? Reading and laughing? Reading and nodding? I'll never know, because you're invisible on the other end of the screen.
And I'm here, tearing myself apart and putting myself back together.
I wonder, sometimes. This is one of those times.
I've noticed an interesting thing happening lately, that I simply can't let slip by.
Bonding.
Not bondage, no. Bonding.
When I first started blogging I didn't take it seriously at all, it was just a few random words I threw down and nobody read. It didn't matter.
As time passed, more and more people grew to know me, while at the same time I grew to know myself. As I've unraveled me, in all my glory and filth, you've been able to read along, observing my joy and disgust, my thrill and misery.
For me, that upped the ante. Suddenly, I had "readers". Do I write things that they want to read, since my ultimate goal is publication...or do I continue to roll along on my own path and see where it leads?
Well, anyone who's read me for any length of time already knows the answer to that: I roll on.
I don't really understand people, but I strive to. I think I'll never really understand anyone until I understand myself. But I endlessly surprise me, sometimes pleasantly sometimes not.
Sometimes my own actions come back to haunt me and I try to root them out, drag my own dark side into the light of day where I can stare at it revolted and fascinated both. I know I have a long way to go, and when I'm reminded of this it's suddenly very difficult to look forward at all. I wallow in my own shortcomings and emotionally beat the crap out of myself.
Today I ponder: Am I a bitch or not? Do I want to be? Some of the crap I've been through has made it a much needed skill, indispensable. But then innocent people are hurt in the process of lashing out, and that isn't right. Then I'm just a jaded bitch that other people must protect themselves from.
Lets face it, that sounds ridiculous. Perhaps I am tired.
My actions matter, however small, and this is something I strive for every day: to Live Consciously. Perhaps distance is my only choice. Perhaps truth. I picked truth. Was it the right decision?
I may never know...
