Why Blog
"In certain kinds of writing, particularly inart criticism and literary criticism, it is normal to come across long passages which are almost completely devoid of meaning" George Orwell
Which brings to the idea of why even write (blog, scribbles, note, yadaa yadaa yadaa). Coming to 6 years now, I wrestle with the idea of blogging, not lest the term in itself is ungainly as it is unelegant but in its essence a conceited activity.
Why would I, one with no name and no contribution to the betterment of any kind be interested in conveying thoughts once restricted within one's cranium. To subject it to public scrutiny, like a roadside merchant bares his wares.
On the flipside, why should anyone at all be concerned about what I write, think and care?
Yet in its uneasiness that comfort and solace is found. To articulate the simplest of thoughts, in unabashed vanity and egomaniacal sense of portraying a character I control to the world. The leisure of experminentation of styles and to toy with every sense of reality being a true delight.
Pardon me for this insidious idea, that the reader is all but a tool in this respect.
For 6 years, nothing of which I write matters... Long sentences carved out of the concept of nothingness and meaningless scribe.
Within the confines of meaningless hypothetical walls, one finds connections, emotions, fancies... all of which subdued in reality.
"If only more people wrote, here where they can be ignored, rather than speaking, foisting their banal opinions on whomever is nearest, the world would be a more contented place."
Two decades coming to three, I've yet to figure the best way to present myself. In to which medium I find confidence or the correct voice for each moment of oratory. The more the phone rings, a little bit more is ripped apart from one's soul. But in the sense of digital abandonment, its me, the keyboard, and as it is... allows for time to reason one's mind... to explore a personal style, perhaps with a cadence in mind and a tune plastered across a particular memory.
Despite my insipid conoction of thoughts, I cherish the naive hope that someone likeminded may nod in agreement, expanding the range of fellows one will probably never know aside from words on a screen.
How silly indeed this idea of writing...
Perhaps one day the penny will drop, and maybe I'll awake...
-contains 8 references to "I" and many more of me- I suppose being narcicistic would also be another reason (make that 9).
Which brings to the idea of why even write (blog, scribbles, note, yadaa yadaa yadaa). Coming to 6 years now, I wrestle with the idea of blogging, not lest the term in itself is ungainly as it is unelegant but in its essence a conceited activity.
Why would I, one with no name and no contribution to the betterment of any kind be interested in conveying thoughts once restricted within one's cranium. To subject it to public scrutiny, like a roadside merchant bares his wares.
On the flipside, why should anyone at all be concerned about what I write, think and care?
Yet in its uneasiness that comfort and solace is found. To articulate the simplest of thoughts, in unabashed vanity and egomaniacal sense of portraying a character I control to the world. The leisure of experminentation of styles and to toy with every sense of reality being a true delight.
Pardon me for this insidious idea, that the reader is all but a tool in this respect.
For 6 years, nothing of which I write matters... Long sentences carved out of the concept of nothingness and meaningless scribe.
Within the confines of meaningless hypothetical walls, one finds connections, emotions, fancies... all of which subdued in reality.
"If only more people wrote, here where they can be ignored, rather than speaking, foisting their banal opinions on whomever is nearest, the world would be a more contented place."
Two decades coming to three, I've yet to figure the best way to present myself. In to which medium I find confidence or the correct voice for each moment of oratory. The more the phone rings, a little bit more is ripped apart from one's soul. But in the sense of digital abandonment, its me, the keyboard, and as it is... allows for time to reason one's mind... to explore a personal style, perhaps with a cadence in mind and a tune plastered across a particular memory.
Despite my insipid conoction of thoughts, I cherish the naive hope that someone likeminded may nod in agreement, expanding the range of fellows one will probably never know aside from words on a screen.
How silly indeed this idea of writing...
Perhaps one day the penny will drop, and maybe I'll awake...
-contains 8 references to "I" and many more of me- I suppose being narcicistic would also be another reason (make that 9).
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