Sometimes I have something I want to say but I can't find the energy to piece the words together. It's been like that for days now, and I'm now expending more energy on NOT writing than I would otherwise do in making the attempt.
So here goes.
My Blog...
When I first entered the blog sphere, it was as a teacher in search of colourful or comical images which I could use to liven up worksheets and teaching resources I was
creating.
A Google Image search for "mountain" may link to a post about somebody's holiday; somebody's love of climbing; advice on mountaineering equipment; an obsession with Everest;
somebody's personal obstacles or victories; the view from somebody's back garden...
I loved it that, just for one moment in time, I could dip into another world, culture, mind, heart. It felt like a privilege to glimpse the world through the eyes of someone I would never know and I loved the bizarre juxtaposition (and I'm sorry to use such a word but I can't think of another) of intimacy and anonymity offered by a blog.
I didn't realise that blogs could be 'followed' by strangers who may become friends in the virtual world. I didn't have a clue that there was a relational aspect to them, and I certainly never dreamed that anyone would sustain interest in anything I wrote.
The notion of blogging became attractive because so much of what I feel and experience feels as though it belongs to a part of me that couldn't be shown to others. A part of me that is too dark, too honest, too pained, too tired... too something.
A diary was too risky. I've kept them before. Dangerous things, diaries. You end up lying half the time... just in case...
I liked the idea that some random person, sitting, standing, lying anywhere on earth, in an office, classroom, lounge, hut, hospital, cafe, bedroom, could hear my voice.
Just for a moment in time.
And that's all this blog was.
A glimpse. A raised eyebrow every now and then. A sound bite.
I like it that I am not 'known' and yet can be heard
I admit to struggling with the fact that not only do some followers feel that they know me, but they have also come to 'care'.
Intimacy is an itchy jumper.
As I type, I am inwardly howling with frustration at sounding so ungrateful.
I have appreciated your words. I have come to care too.
*wince*
The split in me hurts. I am torn by wanting care and wanting to yell at everyone to stay away from me.
Before disappearing into sleep, I should probably conclude by saying that this blog is not about anyone apart from me (yes, it's a very selfish blog).
Anything posted here is an expression of something I am feeling or thinking about. It will have been posted either because of a drive to somehow put it 'outside' of me, or because of an urge to 'create' words for it.
I have no need to be understood or cared about here. I'm not looking for anything other than a little space, on a vast web, where I can be heard without being known.
Intimate and Anonymous.
I will remember, next time I need to exemplify an oxymoron.
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