I am not a social person. I try to be, but let’s face it, in today’s world of socializing you have to have some sort of entertainment value. People only want to follow your tweets or like your Facebook posts if you have something interesting to say. I’m fresh out of “this is the best day of my life” and “look at this great picture of a grumpy cat on this earth-shatteringly funny meme”. The other option is to just have a ton of friends who think everything you say is of national importance. How anyone can get a bunch of likes out of meaningless missives following their mediocre meanderings I have no idea. I’m hopelessly inadequate at today’s version of small talk, the status update. I think it’s really due to the fact that I just don’t care about trying to socialize. Socializing has lost its appeal to me, because (call me old fashioned) I think friends should actually be friends. You know, in the real sense of the word: a person attached to another person by feelings of affection or personal regard (thank you, Dictionary.com).
So why start a blog? True, true. But here it is: writing is a form of mental breathing. I feel best when I can sit and unclog the dam of thought that builds in my mind. Putting word to paper (or to computer screen) is an act so pure in its form, it frees the soul. Emotion, intelligence, sensation have deeper meaning when expressed through thoughtful consideration that comes from your mind processing them into phrases. Psychologists will tell patients to keep journals, and this is probably the best diagnostic advice they can give on the road to self help. When you write you converse with yourself, with a reader, with a world so large and unimaginable that it breaks the confines of time and space and allows you to breathe across the centuries. The gaping maw of reality that swallows the vitality of so many living far from the world’s spot lights have a chance to be heard if he or she can commit thought to written word. Writing, from the first markings of cavemen to the expressions of medieval poetry down to the trashy writings of romance novels, captures the human experience, the human heart and the human mind in such a way as to illuminate the past and process the present. The entire world is at your fingertips in your local library, the hushed voices exploding to life within each text-bound narrative. I love the written word, and writers who I will never meet have carried me through heart sickness and deepest despair. Humans write, because writing proves that existence is more than survival; it is celebration. The triumph of overcoming, the abject disappointment of failure can be captured in a sentence and shared. Even the most unsocial being wishes to be understood, wants to communicate. Even if that communication exists only with a future version of yourself.
So there it is, that is what my blog is all about. Just the thoughts of one insignificant person yelling into the void so that some day it might all take on more meaning. Even if that meaning is lost on everyone else, it still exists for me.