Go and take a ride to a shop in Grant Park

I have three options at this point. 1) Apologize profusely (to who? I don't know) about not posting enough and follow said apology with pathetic reasons why; 2) Continue on like nothing happened and there was no extreme break in continuity; or 3) Acknowledge a break in time and then do a catch-up post.

I choose 3!

So I've spent the last week or so reading through just about every post I've ever made on this blog. For those who don't know, that's 8 years of intermittent posting. As I read through all the things I had written, some of it made me cringe (I am seriously not a particularly good poet), some of it made me laugh (and in response, I think, why can't I be funny any more?), and some of it nearly made me cry (as in, 'I have to stop reading this now or I will be tearing up in the middle of the office').

In the end, the overarching feeling that possessed me was one of satisfaction. As if I had preserved memories and moments in time that would have otherwise been unsavable (I see my penchant for making up words is still strong as ever). This realization (if you will) gave me a desire to keep writing here.

The odd thing is that I was able to trace my desires for this blog over time. I started out wanting, more than anything, to have a ton of people reading what I wrote. I imagined a roiling stock-exchange style atmosphere of witty banter being thrown back and forth through furious, almost unfollowable tangents.

The next stage was one of self-debasement and self-pity. I threw lack of care out like a lure and hoped that my sad, sad state would draw people in. This was basically the same as the first state, but without the blatant cry for attention.

After that came true lack of concern over reader population. If people read my blog, great, if not, great. But I was also stuck in a phrase where I was being narcissistic and felt the my words were good enough that whoever read them would realize that and that I didn't need to advertise.

Then goes more self pity, more blatant advertising, more not caring, more self pity, and finally actual not caring.

I could sense a freedom in writing for nobody but myself. But I found myself asking why I would write on the internet if I didn't care if anybody else read what I was writing. The only answer I could come up with is honesty. I know, that sounds strange. Let me explain. If I have a piece of paper in front of me and I want to tell a story, I can tell it however I like if I know that only I will be reading it. But if I am going to tell that story online, I know that someone who might know the story as well as I, and could call me on it if I lied. It's almost like an accountability group who will keep me at least semi-honest, most of the time.

And even when there is nobody else who knows the story, I know that I will re-read the story that I told the whole world (enter: narcissism), and I know I will genuinely feel bad if I lied.

So...in the long run, this blog is a personal journal punctuated with occasional pleas for feedback, infinite self-indulgence, occasional moments of clarity, countless moment of unclarity, and, overall, a reminder to myself of specific dreams and desires for any given time in my life.



p.s. I guess I actually chose plan 4: recognize my lack of posting, talk about previous posting, and hint at future posting. Go ambiguity!!!