The thing is, I write a whole lot of garbage, and before I even consider clicking ‘publish’, I backspace the whole thing away. Probably for the better, too.
There’s the sense of oh what the point. And who-would-wanna-read-this-anyway.
Not like I would want anyone to read this anyway. No no nooo… Indeed, I made a blog so no one would be able to read it. It’s just to share whatever thought I had and once or twice mention that I ‘elaborated’ it on the blog surreptitiously in some conversation and refuse to give out the address. Sneaky sneaky. Not like they can’t find it on my facebook profile, anyway.
Pride pride. I can’t imagine that I wrote all the things that I wrote just one year ago. Future me would probably blush at the pretentious crap that I garble out now.
Is that a sign of mature-hood? Or is this just some form of self-loathing? I would very like to think I’m ‘mature’ now. But meh. Those usually wanting to be ‘mature’ usually end up being the more childish, narrow-minded bigots.
Every time I visit my blog I find something else to shudder about myself. The color-scheme, the layout, the font, the choice of words, the titles. I’m reminded of how constantly changing my tastes are. And how easily sated, yet only for a very short period of time.
Yep. All jumbled up now. Off to bed.