The blog started as an attempt to take risks in my writing; to write the things I'll generally say, and even more of the things I think, but am not brave enough to commit to paper. I didn't, and I haven't, and this feels a dangerous time to start.
My keyboards stay intact, but I am always writing, I have a lot to tell but nothing to say. This blog happens now when I spill over the edges, when I need to stop bothering my friends, but when the privacy of my own journal feels like the privacy of my own thoughts. Why write when no one is reading? The audience is necessary to complete the cycle. So put it out where you can pretend someone might be paying attention this time.
Except that risk for the artist is inherently masturbatory. So maybe I'm an exhibitionist. There's not a lot of value in watching someone unpack their personal whatever. Unless there's a story. A reason. A lesson. A theme. Sure, a connection. Connection is the reason we do anything.
Connection is free. Meaning is paid for and earned. If I tell you this story because I love you, why tell it to people I don't love? If all I want is their love and approval, maybe that's enough, but what do they get out of listening? How does it go beyond a connection? That was nice, what does it mean?
I guess it doesn't have to mean anything, even if it's for a greater audience. Maybe connection is rare and valuable and exciting enough that it's worth paying for, that it's safer, in an audience. Behind a mask of people that mean you don't have to watch someone unpack their whatever alone. Ah.
The girl who can't look people in the eye because they might see too much of her knows this.
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