Oh to behold the days again when these words were put on display for all the world to see so easily.
For once I’m not bemoaning the fact I find it hard to post as prodigiously as I used to, but how with age has come a level of self-censorship my younger self would have laughed at. Many have always thought it peculiar to write about your inner most thoughts, advertising them to complete strangers. All the more strange when I think about how much of an introvert I tend to be.
Chances are the idea of it all held a great deal of magic to me, in the fact that I was unique in what I was doing in that point. An early adopter in this new field, free to do what he wanted — to redefine his poor self image by bearing his soul and becoming enigmatic and mysterious instead of off center and to looked at as a walking oddity of social inadequacy — worthy of psychological study in his own eyes. But the very act of writing was cathartic. The more life started to give to me, the more I shared, the more people reacted, and the better I felt about me.
But as the rest of the world work up to the reality of personal publishing that the internet brought, I felt the internal censor that permeated my real conversations begin to creep into my virtual sessions of shouting into the void. And what’s more, those who came after me found much greater success with it then I could ever have dreamed possible. No longer was I unique, but I now I wasn’t even as good as what I was doing as I felt I was.
That’s why it’s so much harder to write than it used to be.
There was also more of a willingness to share the large mistakes I made in my life, and peer into the inner darkness of my true self. Even if you’ve read my words and though I’ve exposed a lot what goes on in my head, trust me — I haven’t even scratched the surface. Over the last month and a half I found that to be true beyond truth. Some seriously dark and misguided thoughts ran through my head; sinking me into levels of depression I hadn’t faced in a while.
I know there were ways it showed outwardly, and it spurred on some self-destructive behavior — mostly in my dietary choices and lack of motivation to leave my bed when I didn’t absolutely have to. Then again, being forced back into the sea of uncertainty about employment will make you think of terrible could be’s and horrible what if’s — given enough time and silence.
All the more reason to now redouble my efforts of seeking catharsis, just like this.