I still keep a private blog where I write about things that I cannot tell others. These things aren’t always dark and worth keeping to myself; sometimes, they are light and just not worth sharing with anyone I know. Why blog and keep it secret, then? Because some things, I just do not share, but I have to write about them, too.
I think I am writing about it now, because, earlier, a friend confessed to having her own secret blog page, and her reason- which is to “unload personal junk to feel lighter”- sort of made me question mine. If any. Ha, ha.
It’s like this: I put up the blog out of loathing for a certain someone. He did wrong by me and I got mad but I couldn’t tell him, to his face, that he deserved having his head separated from his body, in the most painful and barbaric way possible, The anger was eating me up from the inside, I had to let it out and, so, the blog was born.
In retrospect, that first entry (and some others that followed) was unloading personal junk, too, but I kept at it and it was a surprise to see how it grew from when I posted my first entry to the last.
It is a little over 5 years old now, a mix of emotions that span the spectrum between this and that. It has been a friend- listening to and accepting the most abusive and the most heartwarming words that I can muster. An enemy- opening old wounds, encouraging memories I would rather not visit.
Anyhoo (I digress), reasons. I keep updating the blog, because I want to let go of certain things that I feel I cannot really walk away from. I am a hoarder, see? I don’t throw away garbage; I stash them away somewhere, in a corner, a closet, a box- you know, somewhere not inaccessible forever? It is not nice, but that’s just how I am. And you wonder how and why I am still acting the way I do- childish- sometimes. F U, maturity, eh?
The blog, on the other hand, sort of grew up more graciously. Not a sign of resisting the inevitable, it just welcomed whatever I fed it. In a way, I am proud to see it become what it is now. My earlier posts seem younger (well, they are) by leaps and bounds than the recent ones. Irresponsible, embarassing rants gradually lost to quiet, almost-mature reflections, and second and third person pronouns gave way to more I’s and me’s and my’s and mine’s and myself’s (I am not so sure about the apostrophes, by the way, to express the pluralities?).
No, I don’t necessarily talk about myself all the time now. That would be so immature. But I don’t want to elaborate on that as well, because, again, reasons. I like keeping an almost-almost-almost-accurate record of who and what I am at certain points in my life, the defining moments, especially. How did I do when I had everything easy? What made me put my hands up in surrender? Why am I here now? You know, stuff. The sort of stuff that I like to keep secret. The sort of secret that I hold sacred.
Sacred secrets that I wish I can forever hide. Because I am selfish like that.