Mercurial

ewan was talking about writing as therapy, blogging as an answer.
I don't know why I write here. I am checking my stats, and wondering about traffic, how it is cheap yet, and how if I were an corp exec I will be allover my ass “write, bitch”, getting to do more, touching more people, disputing the bigwigs, so as to make a name for myself. I don't know, trashing Bush and his trail followers.
However, doesn't matter how I try, it doesn't come out that way. Much to my surprise, writing here is much more important for regarding what I am and how I live my life, what my values are, what I want to be, than anything else.
I don't think a therapy like that, although people have remarked on a difference they see.
Much more as an open introspection, one in which I can not bullshit myself much, because my readers -you, you and you- won't allow it. Or because, whenever I get a pain deep enough to burst my brain, a comment will come, a hand will appear and make the day easy and livable.
And I will find my direction again.
What is it, that writing here is so powerful?
I have been writing since I was six years old. Or five, I don't remember. Mostly things for my courses, thoughts that were alien to my experiences and my desires. Writing was an exercise left to my intellectual brain, a careful consideration of facts and conclusions to be presented.
Journals, as well, were deep and abstruse: Thousands of words tangled on a 36 by 24 page, a poster full of small phrases, an undelivered letter that never made it, one that regretfully did.
But always, and for the most part, that personal journal was virtually hidden behind thousands of notes, grades, reports, books, the daily accumulation of magazines, pictures, souvenirs and scraps of everything.
Once in a lifetime somebody would rescue those, read them and either, like my mother, keep silent, or like my father, pack them where he could have access to them again.
Once a teacher told me to write, so as not to repeat myself. One of the first tales I read was about a storyteller that would die the day he repeated himself.
I write so I don't die, I think, not the physical death but that other, more frightening death, of the mind. Just to see myself in the mirror of the monthly archives, as in a Borgian library my categories all mixed up, but with my thoughts there.
My traumas – I don't know whether to post them yet. I appreciate other people voicing their own, because - that's who we are. Humans, with history and memories, good and bad.
I keep this thing anonymous so as to be able to go down the street – this is a very small town – and not have to face the consequences of writing here, not so much the red face but the stare of others. Or write about my love for a dream girl and subsequent disappointment, and still be able to keep my smile when I see them at the café, and focus enough on what they are to me as friends to enjoy their company. She still smells great, she still is gorgeous, she still likes her feet tickled.
Writing here is not so much a therapy but a truth device, a mirror upon which I have to put myself, the readers out there my witnesses to my own life, much as I am to theirs.
And this is why I can't just trash Sullivan: he has never commented here, he has never been this blog friend that I have found in many other people.
My brother and father are OK, by the way. Thanks for asking!