There is something intrinsically insecure about blogging.
My everyday existence and my occasional adventures are shown to the world in a way that says, "look at what I'm doing. Please read it, please like it, please comment."
But what I'm really saying is, "please tell me that what I'm doing is worth doing at all."
Last year, while I wrote, I wanted people to read about my life and wish they were living it. But, beneath the bullshit, the winter months were cold and lacking any sort of purpose. I had few friends and a job that was underpaid, moderately rewarding, and ended each night long after the sun set. I wasn't happy, so what was I doing here? I read through the comments section looking for an answer and never found one.
Then, when spring came, the city thawed and I warmed up. Life was good. I cut back on my work hours, picked up some Spanish, and filled my day with sunshine and red wine. But it wasn't "blog worthy." It was just what it was: life with no profound realizations beyond the fact that the Starbucks on Manuel Montt never changed their Wifi password.
In short, I stopped writing this blog because no one seemed to care. Including me. My family knew that I was okay, and Facebook kept any interested friends well informed of my mundane meanderings. So why write about what everyone already knew?
I didn't have an answer. At least not while I was writing with the hope that on some far-away screen, someone would read it and walk away any better because of my two cents.
If I am writing for a reader, I'm forced to be cognizant of them. I am forced to present, refine, and exhibit my experience so that someone tells me that it was worth living through and sharing.
Now, I've decided that I don't care. I want to remember my year because a year is too long to not remember, and this blog is a way for me to keep that record. Yeah, I have a paper journal, but it's mostly full of nonsensical chicken scratch and brain barfs. Here, I feel the need to synthesize those bits into a post with pictures and a title. The structure of blogging makes me write something real enough to refer to later when I'm old and struck by the desire to remember.
So here I am, embracing to its core my self-centered reason for coming back. This blog is officially reclaimed as a journal in the truest sense of the word: reader-less.
So if you are here, tip toe around and quickly take your peek. Look over your shoulder to make sure that no one else sees what you're doing. Open different tabs and go into Private Browsing mode. Then go on and read as if you are guilty of doing something wrong. You are. When you finish, delete your search history and pray to God that no one finds out about our secret rendezvous.
Because this is not for you. But forbidden things are always a little more exciting. Here you are, or may be, reading thoughts that are private. And here I am publishing them on the Internet, knowing that I'm a hapless Google search away from being found out.
If there is any hope of me exposing my long-buried secrets and scandals or hanging dirty laundry out to dry, I can't promise that you'll be gratified. It's very possible that what I have to write is completely unremarkable, and the most I can guarantee is at least one rant about how shitty and gritty Nescafé is. Then, because I'm shameless, I'll confess that I don't even mind it anymore.
Maybe this blog isn't worth reading. But for me, and for me alone, it's worth writing. And finally, that's enough for me to keep going. That's enough for me to come back.
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