my entire life in blog. I’ve never wanted fame. Maybe a recognition from peers I admire. An “oh, I know who THAT guy is!” every once in awhile might be cool, but otherwise, who cares who knows you?
I’ve been cultivating the concept that there are two states of self awareness. (with infinite shades between, of course) The first is an inner understanding of the workings. The details, knowing why you do things, and how you make the decisions you make. The second state is merely being aware of the things as they happen. Suprising yourself at times, living life more fully perhaps, or at least more passionately. Maybe I’m just re-inventing the extrovert/introvert dichotomy, but I don’t think so because it seems like a person can be an entirely introverted person and still life life for the experience, and care nothing for the why.
This is of course related to blogging. I ask myself repeatedly why I blog. In fact, I probably ask myself that far more often than I actually do it! I ask the same question of everything I do… and I usually have good answers for myself. (now, as to whether I’m rationalizing, or actually discovering those answers, I’m not sure even I can know.)
At the same time, I’ve been loosing that sense of wonder when I ask. More often as of late, the answer is “who cares?”. Perhaps the biggest why question recently has been why do I play video games. I’ll fully acknowledge that I have an addiction. It’s pretty severe even. I’ve skipped work to play. Sometimes, the why question is entirely absent. I don’t even care. I just want to play this game, or go see this movie, or go have sex, or go do THAT.
I think my poetry is somehow deeply tied to the root of the why question. I used to think I was manic depressive, and I’d only really write when I was at the low and high ends. The best stuff was when I was manic, and the worst when I was depressed. But there were “sane” stretches in between where I wouldn’t really do anything at all, and I wondered if that’s what it was suppose to feel like… just living. Not really doing anything special or particular. I feel that way more and more. Just eeking out an existence. The worst part is that it’s really not disturbing. In fact, I feel no remorse, or I’d change things. If I really wanted to be a famous writer (as I secretly wish everytime I see the clock at 11:11), I’d just fucking write. I wouldn’t play video games, and I wouldn’t juggle three times a week.
Juggling is very much on the “who cares” end of the spectrum, I think.
I wonder if you can read someone’s blog, and make a judgement about where on the scale they fall. I wonder if this even makes sense to anyone but me.
Comments should be working in the next fifteen minutes or so. Tell me what you think?