Sometimes I'm quite fond of the internet. Its ability to inform, entertain, connect me to the ones I love. But other times I really have a muddled sense of what our relationship is. Notably when I am presented with a blank space to type text and all I want to do is scream. Maybe give a kick or two. I want to textually expel all my problems and petty insecurities, as if having someone read them would reify, but also reassure me. Reassure me that I'm being silly. That I don't see myself right. That everything's going to be okay. That change is possible, and even though you don't know me--have never beheld me beyond your laptop screen, you believe in me. You don't know why--you just do.
This is what gets cut from so many posts. Or hidden and woven into pretty, vague language. Or little made up stories or scenarios. Blended with fiction and fantasy to hide the truth. The inescapable audience. We don't blog so we can come back in two weeks time, ten weeks time to see what we were up to. It's quick consumption for someone else. We all have an audience on the internet; be it one or 100,000, you're still conscious of them. And why would anyone parade their issues, besides for attention? The only attention you're going to get will be fleeting. And I'm going to remember when you complained. Not necessarily in a bad way. It's just going to became a part of your online make up--what you let us know. And you're gonna have to carry that with you. On the internet. Where nothing dies. And baggages is measured by megabytes that can't be deleted because they are still in use by another application.