I’ve realised that reading a blog is making an investment. It takes the reader some time to get around a blog, get to know the blogger, find a connection, and then, stay. If that’s the case, I know some people have made the investment to read mine and stay. To them, thank you so very much. Really.
And now, the reason that brought me to this realization.
I follow a girl who blogs regularly. For a long time now, I have been visiting her blog more out of habit than out of interest. (I’ve mentioned her here before.) But what irks me more than anything is that almost all her posts are despondent. It was beautiful sadness initially, but after a while it got too much. I have still been reading nonetheless because I am so used to hopping over and visiting her. She’s got her imagery perfect, I must say. But here’s the thing – I am tired of being that kind of a consumer. No offense. I understand life can really suck – I have my own as a shining example of suckyness of a life – but why-o-why. I know writing a personal blog means putting your heart where anyone can see it and judge you (like I am doing now). It means letting your personal self be put on stage to be seen by those who know nothing about your travails or putting out happiness and laughter to people who might never be physically present around you. Blogging, at some levels, is a scary activity. It’s putting yourself in a public space with the knowledge that maybe, no one will receive you, and even if they do, they might not stay. It’s telling the world how you really felt at a gala dinner or how much you love someone or what you believe in without having ample enough space to live your beliefs. It’s having a space to flex your creativity or your craziness. But it’s just all you if no one comes back and stays. And while I admire this blogger’s grit to blog for over a decade, I am honestly tired of her being miserable.
I am miserable. I am hopeless. I am a pathetic decision-maker. And I want to just cry sometimes. I want to find myself a corner and cry, and cry, and cry. At how I turned out to be such a failure. At how hard I worked and amounted to nothing. At how cornered I feel. But I know that won’t help. I know I gave up. I know giving up won’t help. I know. I know. I know.
And yet, I deleted my blog once because it became my haven of sorrow and I could hack it. So I did. Because I didn’t want this place, sacred or not, to become a reflection of my weakest and dismal self. Yes, there is that part of me. I could howl in pain, trust me, and the God wouldn’t shiver. But what then? What after I’ve painted my dark insides on this place I have built for 7 years and then that’s all it became? What if that’s all I could become?
For what it’s worth, I have my weak and messy self. But I also have my trying self, my shyly-laughing self, my sarcastic self, my funny self, my lonely self, and even my abundant-self. What if I brought all of them here? What if I added many colors? Will people still read me? Will I still be human? Will I still be judged like a blogger is?
Will I be happy for myself?