This is just a blog. I’m writing for myself, to remember. I like remembering. I don’t like pushing words out when I don’t mean for them to exist. Why do I keep starting over? This time, my intent is electronic ink to pixelated paper. To converse what I cannot say. To figure out what I mean. Thoughts, opinions, fangirling, news, whatever the hell I want. To remember and share. It’s not for you, it’s for me.
I stress that because I’m afraid of you.
In the past I wanted an audience. Even now I imagine some anonymous human being reading this and feeling that connection they’ve been so deprived of. I’m 18-years-old and living with an imaginary friend, a sympathetic blogger who lives in my mind and relishes my every written word because we are alike. Yet the thought of an actual person viewing my brain thoughts is terrifying. And I don’t care. This is for me, and you’re welcome to my thoughts.
I get easily embarrassed by who I was yesterday, which is the main factor in the deletion of posts. No more deleting. More embracing. These words stay permanent.