I find it perplexing (even confusing) why people blog or more to the point (because I am a genius at misdirection) why do I blog?
I blog surf, I do… I find someone I like to read, then almost compulsively go to their spots over and over (hell, that’s it, I’m a stalker!); over time, I begin to check out the blogs which THEY read. In some cases, you get a feel for the person blogging, the original blogger as it were – based on who they choose to read - but even that assumption can be incorrect. For people have personalities as varied as the individual behind the pixels …even the apparently transparent numbers whores – for ultimately WHERE does that need arise to feel vindication and to get some form of odd confirmation that you exist and that you count and that you have status.
For myself, blogging is oftentimes an exercise in masochism. The reality is that I truly am rather pathetic in many respects – I allow myself to be get caught up in the glaring headlight of obscurity and find myself bruised and battered by the shattering silence.
I think to some extent it is human nature to want back a measure of respect and generally, to feel that your presence (cyber or otherwise) has had a measure of impact on the rippling pool of reality – web-based or otherwise. There is a need in most humans to find some form of substantiation that they exist, that their presence is in some manner or form recognized, acknowledged.
Sometimes I think blogging is at its most simplistic, a straightforward form of narcissism. Look at me! Listen to me! Talk to me!
Which makes me uncomfortable in a lot of ways as when I explore the whys and wherefores of my need to write coupled with a commensurate need for people to read said writing.
From a rational perspective, I understand that the written word is almost intrinsically MEANT to be read; from that perspective therefore, it is hardly unreasonable to wish it to attain its ultimate purpose. Emotionally, I find myself mortified by my reaction to the approval and approbation of the few readers who take the time to comment ... a sometimes disproportionate reaction which disconcerts me.
Because ultimately, I think that too much energy, effort and emotional need invested in the internet is indicative of some unresolved issues in real life.
Certainly, writing has always been a passion of mine, oft neglected, relegated to scribbles in a hardcover notebook, stories begun and abandoned mouldering in the archives of a forgotten persona, insights and cries of agony staccato marks on a virtual page, lost, unseen and unmourned by anyone but me. But ... but while I would (and did, long before the advent of the internet) write regardless, I find myself caught up in the pleasure I get from how those words are received.
I recognize that the paucity of my real-time life in terms of opportunities to exercise my artistic expression is largely responsible, I have to struggle not to get too caught up, however, and invested (yes, perfect word, INVESTED) in my emotional need for approval because, in essence, to internalize as truth virtual words can cause confusion and upset real life emotional equilibrium.
Part of the issue, of course, is my damn pride – which cuts me when I find my feelings bruised when a piece of writing passes unremarked, unsought or read.
The truth is that once upon a time I had a form of recognizable status – I had a title and an assistant and an internally driven belief in my own abilities and worth. I had pieces of paper which confirmed to the world that I possessed at least a modicum of intelligence, and commensurate marks that reflected a professional belief that my scribbling had merit.
And that was a very long time ago.
My life for more years than I can recall has been a morass of want and need and tedium, of catering to mundane (if reasonable) desires and performing yawningly boring tasks in a work environment which provides a decent job and absolutely no intellectual stimulation. A direction, incidentally, embraced by me and a path taken freely and without coercion.
But as my youth slips away on the trickling granules of time which erode arroyos of regret along the sagging canvas of my body, I find myself rebelling lately... is that there all there is?