I was able to commit myself to something that takes a great amount of responsibility and – to an extent – chutzpah. Last I checked I’ve been viewed by guests around 4500 times in seven months.
This project started as a writing exercise, nothing more nothing less. It generated around 300 sumat reads per month and was quite steady around that number for a satisfactory three months. I told myself that I’ll write just for the heck of it and for me not to forget the little craft I formed growing up. The objective was to write whenever something comes up; when suddenly my entries became habitual with frequencies I never knew I could sustain. While its intention stemmed from personal growth and narcissism, a different avenue branched from it. Consciously unbeknownst, I transitioned writing for readers. One day, a co-writer commented on what he thinks of my writing, then a friend forwarded how he appreciates what I created and more words were posted. I started with a “no comment allowed” format, but one day forgot to deactivate it when the remarks started coming in. It was then that I openned my doors.
I might have said it before but allow me to say it again, I love to write. And a huge part of me continues to hope that it loves me too. In ink, things have become more bearable, more funny, more sweet, more bitter, more angry and then some. There is a heightened sensation in documenting ones thoughts. It brings the truthful beauty in life and in times one needs an escape, embellishes the lie. I’ve found comfort here and it is unconditional.
In a world of Friendster, My Space and Multiply generation, blogging has become a deviant shot to normalcy. When instant gratitude and entertainment steer internet savvy people to select the straightforward way of socializing, reading educated blogs are the least of their interest. It would be smart to conclude that writers are sorted to the minority. Yet it thrives. A few chooses to keep it alive, not for someone else’s sake or to confront an ailing social retardation but to find self satisfaction brought by the simple yet complex freedom to sound off. It is true that asinine blogs have abound, writing incoherent and pointless thoughts that’s gibberish to the rest of the world – I know I have some of them stashed somehwere. But that’s what makes the freedom multifaceted. Each have a story to tell, some may not be as astute or relevant like the other’s but it’s a portion of a life nonetheless. A fascinating fractal, shall I say.
I’m just a regular girl living a regular life but I trust that each of us have a story to tell. To many, 4500 hits is very few but I’ve considered the fact that I’m a nobody who’s voice is usually drowned in the hubbub of a big crowd. Each with opinions of their own and each trying to level with everyone. Half the time we talk more than we listen and it achieves a failure to commit on a true communication. But no one gets offended, life and its idiosyncrasy have taught us to adapt. And yet, in the sea of voices and thoughts equaling to disparity, 4500 took time to be silent and listen to me. They took the time either to confront my lopsided opinions or bolster my remarks. With or without an audience, I probably would still be writting. Nonetheless, tapping into the cognisant of friends and strangers has become the icing on my cake. In my formation years, I was discouraged to speak up, maybe because I was just so blunt. But I realized later on that if I write it down, people conclude that I’m a brooding tortured soul worth listening to. Rude or polite, sensible or senseless they tend to stop and listen … in this genereation, read.