Quite frankly, I haven’t been quite honest with you, blog. I don’t even know what I’m trying to protect nor whether I even care anymore.
I suppose I was far too reckless with my honesty, before.
Complete disregard for other people’s, well, emotions and ongoing narratives.
And now I fear that I’m too afraid. A dichotomy of embarrassment and under-potentialising. I feel the need to ‘mature’. To protect the private lives of private people, to hush and class up my act. If this be the public face, the result of search Googled, then what can I bear to let you see and assume and project and personify?
And to what extent do I hide behind Born-again tact, scoffing at girls blogging about snogging my ex, twitpicing their dates and raising my heart rate. How much do I silence my rage, and low lows, or newfound excitement through an ever present melancholy at the cost of exercising my writing. I used to tell you everything.
I still have much to say.
This entry was written by , posted on December 24, 2010 at 4:17 am, filed under Love, Self-diagnoses, Writing. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.