I’ve been hyping this up far, far too much. There is such fear in writing, whether it’s for myself or some safely anonymous audience. The constant comparison: every sentence is argued, and every line could be better. More concise, more eloquent, more fluid. The fear, and this time tinged with sadness, that I’ve lost my voice. God I used to have a voice. It was a fiery one, too. Ever bemused, slightly cynical, and very dry. I am at risk of impersonating myself.
A blog. A purposeless blog. No DIY can you even imagine?), no gluten free recipes. My guess at this point is that it’s going to be more complaining. Twitter is a fabulous platform for complaints, but who’s satisfied with 160 characters of it? No one. I could write complaint essays. I have written complaint essays, and they’ve been fabulous, soul-crushing creations. I used to want to be a critic. Non-specific. Music, food, movies, books. There’s something satisfying about listing your personal grievances, with or without exaggeration. I suppose it’s some form of bullying, break something down to feel that little bit better about yourself. I’m sure I’d rather talk about an album being offensive to my ears than actually give my reflection and own flaws the time of day. Though we all know they get plenty of screentime. Well. We don’t all know that. Joy of a clean slate. Hello, undiscovered social media platform. Awfully quiet here. I think I like it. Writing something for myself, not to get a reblog, retweet, even a like.
My life morphed along quite contentedly with social media, and then it skipped ahead – why don’t you eat this, so you can take a photo of it and chuck it on Instagram? I was paraphrasing present action into tumblr posts, mentally live tweeting my static thoughts. Do this, so you can proclaim that you’ve done it. And if you haven’t made some kind of post about it – did it even really happen. If I don’t photograph my cake, did I even eat it? Stomach says yes, but the absence of recognition says no. Constant seeking validation, some kind of approval. Some of us are sideliners, voyeurs, happily liking, happily watching other peoples mediocre existences. Nothing to say? Throwback to that time I was interesting! There’s competition, too. When we’re able to pick and choose what people see, why on earth would we share the boring, or the sad. No, you don’t know about the divorce, but man did you see that gorgeous cat I came across on todays walk. I suppose that’s part of the intrigued, the satisfaction of a successful lie: everything is just fine. The selfie to announce “I’m still here!” or “I looked good today, you should see!” or “I think I looked okay, but I’m not sure, hopefully other people will confirm that I was in fact passable!” We steal sneak peeks at profiles that shouldn’t be on our radars. I wouldn’t want to see you in real life, but god knows I want to know what you ate for tea. “Stalk” has become casual language. Furtive glances at an ex’s Instagram (“please don’t look happy” – pretending that I am in fact happy), the girl who bullied you in middle school (“ah, still ill I see” – pretending that I am in fact no longer ill myself), the SO’s ex’s Instagram (“why would you do that to your hair?” – as mine falls out in chunks), and so on. Happily washing yourself into the background as you indulge in some good old bitching. Unbeknownst to anyone but yourself. Sad creatures that we are.
Says me on a damn blog.
– 12th September, drafted post.