I just wrote a whole blog which ended with ‘Do NOT respond.”
I then realised it probably wasn’t something I should put on the internet.
Instead I’ll give you a little anecdote: A few weeks ago I was on the train. I put down the folding table in front of me and found some folded up pages of typescript. A cursory glance told me it was a story. I spent the next few hours imagining that I had discovered a few pages from an author’s preliminary manuscript. Perhaps I could contact the author. Perhaps it was a little glimpse into his soul, or his imaginarium. Private; he hadn’t meant for it to be found. Or read. Or thought about.
At the end of the day, I curled up in bed and unfolded the pages. It was a dull and detailed account of a poker game.
Life is shit.
I thought about it for a while though and came to a different train of thought. I don’t only write my diary to be read. I’m never leaving anything on a train, diary or not. I’m surprisingly private – some of my friends say uptight. I don’t mind sharing as long as I can choose who I share with. I can tell people I’ve known for ten days about my nationality complex, but if any of my years-long friends even discover a fanfiction I have written, or an essay about Hinduism, I would feel very uncomfortable. ANrgy, even, that it was not in my control what they knew about my mind.
I shouldn’t have posted here about deep dark problems, and I won’t again. The internet is no a void, it’s full of people, people I know, people I do not want to talk about my indiscriminate thoughts with.
Sorry that this sounds so bitter and defensive; I always intend to write something light-hearted. I don’t know why my blogs always come across so dark and angry when I’m pretty sure I’m fine at the moment. Perhaps I’m not, but that’s not for you to know.