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.
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.
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.
Day by day, the gun becomes more appealing. Lately I’ve been ready to shoot. I’ve picked it up very infrequently up until now. Though recently, my hand has had it gently grasped, ready to pull that trigger and kill that figure once and for all. I still don’t want to, but the figure keeps getting closer, making threats, stabbing at my heart, coming close to ripping it out. It would be much simpler to just end its existence, because that seems to be what the figure wants these days. At first I thought the figure wanted to simply provoke a reaction to finally be noticed and re-acknowledged, but since then things have changed with the figure. Assisted suicide. That’s what it wants. Or is it? I’m not quite sure…
Nobody knows. It would take attention. Intuition. A moment of not focusing on oneself. There’s beauty in this world, but there’s also an area of darkness that remains inconspicuous to most. No one notices it within others very often. It’s all internal. It’s all in our heads. Well that’s the most dangerous thing for one’s sanity. For their mental health. For their happiness. To continue going on through life, caring about others, wanting to connect to them, needing to connect to them, but not feeling the same care reciprocated. It’s like you’re that cashier that continuously asks distracted customers how they are, and wishing their ungrateful ass a good day when you finish giving them what they bought. You’re left feeling alone, while standing surrounded in a crowded room. You’re never alone in the literal sense, but you’re always alone in reality. Depth doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Intimacy is a rarity. No one knows how to connect anymore… Actually, that’s not true. No one cares. There is a lack of interest. “Focus on someone but myself? Make someone feel valued? Have genuine interest in someone? Pshh that’s too much work, I’ll just let people treat me like some amazing discovery while I remain indifferent towards them.”
The other day, I looked in my mirror, and in the reflection, I saw a stranger. She looked at me with wide eyes, begging to be noticed, but I avoided eye contact. She made weird faces, bugging out her eyes, sticking out her tongue, forcing a smile, finally shedding tears in defeat. None of it worked. I looked at her, but not directly at her. I was scared, and she was sad. I had forgotten her in the mirror. Every time I step in front of that mirror, I look right past her. I don’t look, because I don’t recognize her anymore. I’m afraid that if I look too long, it will all become to real. I’ll finally take notice that I’ve heartlessly abandoned her for all these days. The fear that I’ll remember her. Who she was, her vibrancy, her enthusiasm for life, how I felt whole when I saw her in the mirror and could tell you her name. Every second she’s trapped in that mirror, I hear her cry. It’s quiet in efforts to not disturb anyone, yet I hear it all the time and it keeps me awake at night. She knows I hear her. I feel her presence beside me wherever I go. She and I used to be one, but now we’re two entirely different entities. She’s drowning in her tears, and I’m numb. She screams at me, in order to bring me back to reality. She makes a mess in every area of my life in order for me to see the destruction to bring me back, to make me aware. Yet I’ve lost all touch with reality. She knows that. That’s why she continues this seemingly pointless effort.
She’s the only one who knows, and she’s the only one who can bring me back.
Lately you may have noticed, that even though I’m posting more frequently than I have in the past, the posts aren’t long, and the content is very vague and random. Truly, there is an underlying theme, and if you deciphered hard enough, I’m sure you’d find it, but for the time being, I have to remain vague. Lately I’ve been keeping to myself about a lot of things. So by nature, I feel compelled to write it out since otherwise I would feel like a shaken up soda can ready to burst. You see, in a way, those of you who read my blog are given more insights into what’s going on in my life, and you don’t even know the half of it. Imagine those that I don’t even show a single sentence of these posts to. They are informed of even less. Originally I planned to keep this blog completely anonymous, but as of now, I have about 5 people I know in person who have access to my posts. At first I was glad to finally be able to just mutter “read my blog” to save myself the effort of reiterating a thought or idea. Though now, it’s not as nice. The moment you’re going through an unpleasant moment in your life is when anonymity appears the most appealing it ever has. I wish I could write as freely as I once did, but given the fact that it’s no longer anonymous, I can’t do that. So I will continue admitting every unfiltered detail of my thoughts and feelings, but for now, they’ll be expressed through metaphors, or vaguely described from a detached observer (referring to my post written in second person, titled: “Why They Leave”).