Thursday, March 29, 2007

To blog or not to blog.

My answer was no. For a long time. And I found plenty of reasons to keep away.

Blog? Nah. I don’t blog.

In a very nose-up-in-the-air, I-don’t-believe-in-doing-what-everyone-does sort of way. Or like it was something my mom did and I didn’t want to be thought of as oh-so-last-generation. And so dissent met commentary and I resorted to violent dysentery every time someone even whispered blog.

Blogism. Solipsism. Not my cuppa teaism.

I believed blogging was a self-induced need in everyone to satisfy one’s self-indulgence. A “read-me, read-me” phenomenon, which I didn’t want no part of. I was not pro-publicity. I never was. And I wasn’t going to turn into some extroverted over-the-top self-obsessed pseudo-significant egotist all of a sudden.

Anyone with any sense in their heads doesn’t blog.

The pages and pages of limitless word-spewing. The hours and hours of mind-speaking. The raving. The ranting. The mind-numbing. The mind-fucking. Why would a sensible bloke waste so much energy? And where does he find so much time to waste?

Me? I am too passive. Dispassionate. I read. But I don’t have a Catcher in the Rye to swear by. I watch plenty of movies. But frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. I couldn’t be bothered about what ate Gilbert’s grape, who framed Roger rabbit and where all the copywriters have gone. And I wasn’t going to pretend it mattered.

But that’s only what it all sounded like. Truth be told, it was the exact opposite. I didn’t think I was too big for a blogger’s shoes. No. In fact, I thought I was micro-tiny. Too insignificant. A mini maggot in blogmire. Such a small speck, I might as well not exist.

More than anything, I was too shy to speak my mind. What if no one liked what I wrote? What if people thought I couldn’t write? What if I begin to question my living as a writer? What if? What if? There were too many self-denying what ifs, Goliaths and holy cows out there. And they scared the shit out of me.

Then it struck me. I am not here to make a point. I am not here to be read. And I have no intention to make this public. At least, not yet.

So, I choose to remain a small speck. Like that tree in the forest that fell when no one heard it, I am here to write about nothing. And for no one. So do I exist at all?


That’s for me to decide. But now, I have a new fear to face every day. And a new face to fear when I look at the blog-me in the mirror.