Sitting here with my new Macbook Air, I suddenly wonder why did I rush out to buy it?
Did I need it for uni or travel? Not desperately.
But now that I have it, I have the urge to make the best use of it.
So I am thinking about writing.
I thought suddenly a few days ago on the train, “What stops me from writing? Or rather from posting more often somewhere other than my own personal notebooks?”
“Is it the thought that no one will read what I write?”
But I believe in writing for oneself, in exploring ones own thoughts.
“Perhaps it’s a fear that someone actually will read it.”
More than that, I think I fear some kind of judgement.
I am afraid someone will read it,
read it and feel the same way I do when I read my old diary entries,
read it and think “That is a bunch of pretentious crap with no truth in it whatsoever.”
I guess I am still learning to really define and own up to my own character and personality.
“Perhaps that’s my problem.”
I don’t publish or post because I dread that finality of the internet,
of owning up publicly to having once thought such thoughts, or felt such feelings.
I dread that feeling of embarrassment one gets reading the diary of their younger and more pretentious self.
“But surely writing isn’t about being right, or even agreeable?”
Am I happy just to quote the words of others, as a kind of approximation of my own feelings and thoughts,
just so I don’t have to own up to having thought anything original or different?
It sounds a little bit silly when I put it that way, doesn’t it?
“Don’t I have something original to offer?”
I’m not sure at all, but maybe I should write to find out.
Perhaps, by nature, writing is pretentious and everyone is uninteresting in isolation.
“Is it actually through sharing, that our thoughts become interesting?”
I want to try and own up to the way I see the world,
and maybe, along the way, ask “Does anybody else see what I see?”