And I’ll give you an answer.


It most likely won’t be your desired answer.

It’ll be missing parts and pieces I’m uncomfortable with saying, even though that is plain selfish of me.

Why should I be allowed to hold back details of something that really has no relevance to the current day and is nothing more but a memory, while the other party doesn’t?

I feel like shit after doing it.

So I feel like shit right now.

This isn’t even just a problem with telling other people.

Whether it be via text, speech, or any other form of communication.

I have been doing this for a long, long time. Long enough to be able to do it in all forms of communication easily.

Drop this.

Forget that.

Make this part vague.

Pretend to not remember this.

Then fake that.

And then when you reread your own story, all you will be able to think about is how boring this poor stranger’s life is.

We don’t read books that are boring, even if they have a good plot with many ways to expand it.

If the author expands it poorly, then the plot has gone to waste, and the book declines in interest.

In speech, a little stumble allows you to restart the sentence without any receiving any weird looks.

In text, there’s no countdown for when the reply should go through. Simple things can delay a response.

In a blog… you can just edit your shit.

Realizing that people actually read my experiences really hold me back from describing them anymore. I haven’t even started my grade 9 piece, because it contains too many thoughts and feelings that I consider as ‘private’. Although most readers will quickly forget the embarrassing (for myself only) details within minutes of completion, just putting it out there scares me.

But the point of a blog is to be able to share the thoughts that one doesn’t want to express elsewhere.

At least for me.

I don’t want people to learn about me.

I rather stay with whatever pre-assembled slate they have for me.

If they think I’m normal, sure.

If they think I’m smart, sure.

If they think I’m lazy, sure.

While the opinions of others really shouldn’t matter all that to me, it does.

But yet right here, it doesn’t.

If I really cared what they thought of me, I would be actively trying to change their views, and paint a different picture over their coloured canvas.

The last time I was going to tell someone something important to me, was sometime last year.

I backed out in the last minute, and promised I wouldn’t do it next time.

I can’t break that promise, because there won’t ever be another time where I’ll do such a thing.

Unless I change someday.


Sigh, I pretty much gave up on this little stupid internal conflict when I said that my life was uninteresting.

I really wanted to say something too.

My life is uninteresting. That’s because I choose to describe it so.

Everyone’s life is interesting.

And if you don’t see it, shame on you.

And if you don’t see your own life as interesting, then why bother to live it.

I ruined my own good mood.