Why Formatting is Unnatural

Yesterday I was walking and couldn’t stop thinking about how much I dislike formatting. Yeah, MLA, APA, all of those triple letter format styles, I don’t like any of them. Must have an intro, body paragraphs, and a conclusion. What if it’s not the end? What if I don’t want to conclude? (Even though I is usually end with some form of a conclusion…) Perhaps it’s the reason why I loved the songs The Weeknd produced in his earlier days so much. They’re long, they’re rule breaking, and he shows real emotion and thought in them. It’s not clean cut and polished. It’s rough around the edges to some, with curse words sprinkled inbetween and drawn out notes that last a life time as you anticipate the next verse. 

I know that I also comply to these rules of what proceeds what and how each thing should be written properly in order for it to be universally acceptable, but I can’t help but feel it constrains some people’s creativity. You could have a very passionate writer with many thoughts and insights draw a blank when deciding what to write because the confines are so limiting. 

Formatting is unnatural. It’s not human. Sure it’s man made, but it’s not a representation of the variety of how the subconscious pours out thoughts. It doesn’t show the inconsistencies in the pace and the perspectives. Sometimes you second guess yourself, sometimes you show a bit of humanity when your thoughts ebb and flow and each word isn’t a polished piece of perfection. There are tangents erased that could have shown you a bit about the writer’s thoughts. 

That’s why I like reading poems and stories, or stream-of-conscious writing. It isn’t written to please the reader, it’s written to get the thoughts out and articulate them before they cease to exist in our fluid memory of the thoughts that run through our minds. When I read it, I can feel the liberation the writer had knowing that the words could finally be on a page to live a new and unencumbered life. This kind of writing gives our subconscious a chance to speak and it’s beautiful. 

How to get views 

Recently, the topic of site traffic has been circulating around me. I’m taking a class dealing in social media, and it highlights the importance of the presence you have on your accounts, and the content you share. One day my professor asked “do you think it’s effective to be real with your audience in a blog format?” I shook my head no. I feel that the majority of people who are “real” are the fake “real”, then there are the ranters, and then there are those that post possibly to much “real” content (I fall into the last two categories). I feel that you can be surface level “real” with viewers, stating socially acceptable beliefs, and sharing your likes and dislikes. You can’t however have moments where you’re unpoised and simply write to get it out and feel the emotions. Successful blogs are the ones that have one topic (typically can’t be about your feelings, cause those aren’t consistent with one topic), are the same word count every time, and always have a crafted message that aligns with your intended topic. 

As you all probably can see, this blog of mine isn’t formed around one centralized topic. I view my blog as more of a documentation of my beliefs, experiences, and thoughts over the span of my life so that I can come back periodically and see what I was thinking about or going through a year ago. Perhaps one day I’ll make a blog about one topic in particular. For now I’m comfortable with keeping it as is, anonymous and real. As the world is becoming increasingly disconnected on a deeper level and increasingly connected on a surface level, I don’t feel the need to try to get my content in the circulation with the high profile blogs. 
Now I’m not intending to bash the well crafted messages of blogs that have succeeded, cause I’ll admit that I partially  just don’t have one topic of interest that I’d like to fully exhaust by writing about it. The only consistent things I’ve ever written were books, because obviously I can’t vear off from the main point of my story. 

Though, I have yet to encounter a high profile blog that’s “real” deep in its core, to where you know each and every flaw. The flaws are hidden because we’re scared to show our imperfection. That’s what frustrates me. We live in a world of status updates rather than full time live streaming, and compare our imperfections to the one moment of perfection displayed in a picture or a post. We begin to devalue what we have to offer as a unique individual and become demotivated to be real. 

Fake or Real

Sometimes I write without thinking. I let the words flow out, and believe them to all be true. That does not always feel genuine though; because with each stroke of the keys, a bit more romanticization occurs. Each moment is put on a pedestal, just as a moment should be, yet it can be misleading. Behind each perfect moment is the conscious intent of trying to see the good and let the bad fade away, and with that, you get a flawless memory of an event. Then there are times when I write just the good, but the bad still ruminates in my mind. I fight it and beg it not to take my soul away from the appreciation of the good times. Moments are fleeting, life is only temporary, and we all are imperfect in our ways. We do what we know works and hope for the best. We’re all fucked up in our tiny ways, and sometimes those pieces of us affect others when we let them seep out into our actions. I guess what I’m saying is that sometimes the good and bad are so intense, that if you just focus on the good, something might appear to be perfection. On the other hand, when something is purely good and does not have those lows that make the highs feel higher, you may not have the words or the urge to write about that kind of good. I’ve found that the times in my life when I’ve talked to you (my readers) is usually when I was my most depressed. I sought to writing because it was my refuge away from the lack of silence in my own head. When I’d let any thoughts out, whether it was actually purging the bad ones or not, it would make me feel better. Writing something inspired in that time of my life made me feel like something was going right, even when nothing really was. A couple months ago, I was the saddest I had ever been, but wrote a lot of posts that I look back on and am pleased with how they make me feel. I guess at the very least during that time, I was introspective.   

Untold Stories

Recently, abandoned houses, hotels, and businesses have been on my mind. There is one abandoned hotel in particular that comes to my mind, and it makes me sad to think that such a massive structure with so much potential has been given up on. Though, it’s not just that. It is also the fact that all of those memories of that place slowly deteriorate with the place, never once being recounted or acknowledged by anyone who took part in what it once was. When I see the outside of this unique structure, I imagine the kids peering out windows, the people in the dinning areas sharing the same view of a major road. Now I know that may not sound picturesque to you, but despite the poor location, the place once had life to it, I can just sense it. There is a whole floor plan, accounting for the special details of which rooms would go where, that we all take for granted that has now gone to waste. The materials used to create such a building lay in a wreck from the ware and tear of the homeless that inhabit it during off hours of the day, and others that find themselves drawn to this place for no particular reason. There needn’t be any reason, cause there’s just something about a building that once had life, but lost it in its prime. As ridiculous as it might sound, I think that sometimes demolishing buildings’ whose fate is to just rot away as people misuse and abuse it is the most humane way for a building to go. It is just so much wasted space, and so many precious memories that they disrespect by leaving it instead of replacing it. I know it is odd for me to go on about a building as though it deserves remembrance almost like a human, but for some reason it doesn’t sit well with me, or at least entices me to want to know more about what this building was like in its prime time.  I understand that it is an impossible task to ensure that all buildings keep record of the quirks of the staff, the types of costumers they got, the things they served, the regulars, the crazy odd stories, pictures of the building, and the atmosphere that resonated through the now open, empty space, but that makes me sad. Although, I am one to also wish that all humans would do the same. Not necessarily recording every mundane detail of life, but just the highlights. That is kind of what this blog is for me. I don’t tell you all of the details, but I give enough of a hint of what really went down so that it will trigger the memory when I want to recount it in full detail.

Distortion

       With closed eyes, you begin to imagine your body in the space you have hidden from sight with the aid of your eyelids. The water trickles down your body and you’re at ease, but soon your blind perception has been lost at sea. There are waves and exaggerated features. Your head feels so heavy you get the sense that you have been transformed into someone’s bobble head toy. You feel tall. Then short. The fat. Then thin. Soon your entire body betrays you, each part taking turns warping itself into a shape and size you’ve never seen before. Eventually, the relaxation paired with madness ends as you shut the water off, dry your body and seek comfort from your bed. You lay naked, confused as to what is real and what is not. There is no connection with the body you see in the mirror and the eyes it belongs to, so the message of what shape, hew, and size your body is, is no longer properly conveyed. You rationalize that you know you’re healthy, but your mind doesn’t recall that when it takes you on the roller coaster through the amusement park of what is reality and what is not.  

Fear

I’m sacred that I’ll convince myself once more that I am wholeheartedly over you. I’m afraid I’ll fall into that abyss of denial and will never find my way back to you. I’m quick to guard my heart, which means if you tell me I’m single, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll share the most meaningless exchanges and inject as much meaning as I can for the other person. I’ll gain their affections, hoping their piqued interest will someway invigorate my attraction to them. Currently I’m playing this little game, I already have my first play in motion, and I’m afraid it is working all too easily. You see I’ve never really had trouble in this game, I just chose to never play it, cause it didn’t suit my style. Instead I played the waiting game. I’d observe the players that walked by, and if any looked particularly unique, then I’d prepare to play. They’d take note, and the games would begin. The only reason I ever participated is because when I waited, I had the opportunity to play an entirely different game altogether. I found that when you play with the best, you always have the most fun. I miss playing with the professionals, the rookies aren’t just cutting it. They don’t know how to make my heart skip a beat, or give me those nervous butterflies. Though maybe it is due to the fact that my heart’s just not in the game anymore. My body is, but even it wants to retract and discontinue what I’ve started. I have many options, but you’re the only one I love. 

Fear

I’m sacred that I’ll convince myself once more that I am wholeheartedly over you. I’m afraid I’ll fall into that abyss of denial and will never find my way back to you. I’m quick to guard my heart, which means if you tell me I’m single, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll share the most meaningless exchanges and inject as much meaning as I can for the other person. I’ll gain their affections, hoping their piqued interest will someway invigorate my attraction to them. Currently I’m playing this little game, I already have my first play in motion, and I’m afraid it is working all too easily. You see I’ve never really had trouble in this game, I just chose to never play it, cause it didn’t suit my style. Instead I played the waiting game. I’d observe the players that walked by, and if any looked particularly unique, then I’d prepare to play. They’d take note, and the games would begin. The only reason I ever participated is because when I waited, I had the opportunity to play an entirely different game altogether. I found that when you play with the best, you always have the most fun. I miss playing with the professionals, the rookies aren’t just cutting it. They don’t know how to make my heart skip a beat, or give me those nervous butterflies. Though maybe it is due to the fact that my heart’s just not in the game anymore. My body is, but even it wants to retract and discontinue what I’ve started. I have many options, but you’re the only one I love.