I’ve been gripped with a gnawing fear of posting in this blog for a long time. Many a time, it’s the fear that these words do not have any sort of authority behind them. I’ve slinked away from the public sphere into a more private cocoon because most of the time I find that sharing my personal anecdotes to be rather narcissistic and repulsive. And yet, I keep returning to the point that I’m failing in my journey to write better because I don’t write anymore.
I can’t say that I’ll be writing more. I still rely on inspiration rather than discipline to build this blog’s authenticity and credibility. I rely on lazy mechanics like “brain-to-screen”, or just typing whatever comes to mind. It’s conversational, intrinsic and insipid. Furthermore, I have no idea why anyone would want to read the mindless ramblings of this individual who has not accomplished much in this thirty-five years on earth. I feel average in my accomplishments, I feel terrible for some of my bad habits, though I feel great in my growth as a partner to my wife, though I go back to feeling terrible for the times I’ve let her down, and let us down.
I also don’t want this place to be about my dissatisfactions, although I do feel some sense of release when I share about the things that have been weighing me down. And therein lies another trip-up, I am concerned about over-sharing, or sharing in general about my insecurities and failures because this is the Net, and people can use that against you when you least expect.
But I also don’t want this to be about shiny happy people and inspo-porn. I don’t want it to be a narcissistic lake of my own life and it’s reflection either. In the end, maybe I don’t know what I want this blog to be even. And I can’t believe I’m subjecting you to reading that when it should perhaps only be words for me to read, on my own.
So maybe I want to improve, and I want to be more real, and I want to be more unadulterated as a writer, blogger or maintenance guy for this domain. I would like my writing in here to be part of my self-improvement. And unsurprisingly, it’s not so much the output or the finished product that proves that I’ve been on a path of improvement, but the process of writing in here that I hope to improve. I *feel* good when I write in here without caring about how these words are taken. At least not yet. Currently, it feels *nice* to type in this box, and just ramble away, not knowing how this story ends.
And when it does end, nothing really changes. Not on my insides, not in your world. Not in this universe. Just words on a screen that were without intention, at least for now. How much more must I write before what I write matters? Perhaps never. But maybe I can journal in here, and if you like what you read, maybe you’d like to stay, and if you didn’t like what you read, then you can leave. I don’t think I’ll mind.