I guess you can call the content of this post a sort of trip down memory lane. This has been on my mind for the past few months, and I am curious as to whether I am the only one who feels this way.
“I feel very alone in the blogosphere”, I told Andrew one night on the phone, which subsequently caused him to vomit through the phone and into my ear, due to my use of the word “blogosphere” (It’s alright, I have heard that worse things can be done to your ears). Anyway, I think he lost a little bit of respect for me just then, and I am doubtful of whether I will ever get it back. I guess there are two things I can do now: get a P.hD and prove that my use of the word ‘blogosphere’ was just a fluke, OR I can whisper the word ‘blogosphere’ in his ear over and over again while he is asleep, and hope that it will invade his dreams. MWUAHAHA. It’s so good to be bad.
Ooookay, this post has just taken a totally different and much more intimate direction. Back to the topic at hand!
You know that scene in Mean Girls, where Damien and Janice take Cady on a tour through the cafeteria, while giving her the 411 about the cliques at the school?
That is how I feel as a “new” blogger, except no one is mean, and the rows of tables with people are endless. It has been so long since I was last a novice in this game, and I can’t remember what I did back then, many moons ago, or how I managed to discover and subsequently move into this tight-knit corner of the Internet. I was fourteen or fifteen back then, and this world was extremely important to me. Looking back on it, I grew up with these people! The dynamics and intrigues of this alternate society almost made the real world seem unnecessary, because I got most of my needs met here. And yet I didn’t, of course I didn’t, but I wholeheartedly believed it was fulfilling enough.
Then there were long periods of time where my interest faded, and I became fixated on other things, and blogging moved way down on my list of priorities — probably because all “unnecessary” writing, and writing in general, made me want to gag. School does that to you. And I guess that everyone moved on to bigger and better things in my absence. But now I am back, from outer space, and writing no longer makes me want to gag, and since I am in my “look-at-your-life-look-at-your-choices quarter-life crisis mixed with an obscene amount of self-awareness and melancholia”-phase, I am wondering where everyone has gone. I know that era is gone and over, because people grow up, or change, and that is fine. Melancholic, of course, but fine. I am a different person also, I am grown up now, and I want to feel that sense of community again. I don’t want to push myself down anybody’s throat, I just want a network, and people I can network with and/or create fun things with. That is what I have always valued the most in my time as a blogger. I have made incredible friends, which is far more important than anything else.
So now I am going to get up on a little box and yell out into cyberspace: “LET’S PLAY! Let’s help each other grow, not necessarily in an ad-sense, hit-boosting kind of way (not sure I can help anyone with that), but in a good old-fashioned camaraderie, follow each other with a genuine interest, kind of way”.
That is what I miss.
I should be in school, but my back hurts for the third day in a row and – also – I missed my alarm clock and woke up at 10.59am.
I have had an epiphany, and I am just bursting to tell someone, and unfortunately for you my boyfriend is in the other room wearing sound-cancelling headphones.
I have been blogging on and off since I was fourteen years old. When I was younger, there was less self-censor, less over-thinking it, less “Can I share this corny song-lyric from the early 2000s with the world and call that an entry”. I wrote because I could, because I loved it, because I felt like my little writing-heart was just bursting with thoughts and feelings and messages that were worthy of being heard. Then I got older and more self-conscious and muchos afraid of hurting everybody’s feelings. I got infected by the disease.
I recently found an old diary of mine with torn pages and bent corners and drawings related to my entries. A couple of months ago I had coffee with a good friend of mine at a café where we discussed writing and diaries. My friend is an amazing writer. She is the type of writer who is always scribbling on a piece of paper, who feels that she HAS to write. It’s in her veins, and life is not worth living without it. She looks like an artist, not caring if that shirt was also worn yesterday, her hair always changing color, and she uses small pens and small notepads and probably sits in her windowsill at home when she writes with a cup of coffee and soft music playing in the background. Anyway, we talked about diaries and she told me she had been writing diaries for as long as she could remember. I told her in return that I was a horrible diarist, and that every entry I had ever written in a diary had started out with an apology directed at the diary for not writing in so long. That was how I remembered it and myself, as the eternal goody two-shoes who had always been held back by self-censorship and feelings of guilt.
Then I found my diary. Friends, let’s just say that self-censorship was not a disease this child suffered from. I can’t tell you how happy I was to discover that a) I was a little witch, and b) I wrote on a regular basis from the age of ten to the age of fourteen, documenting everything from my eating disorder to my one and only TV-appearance, of course dissing everybody who had anything to do with me on a regular basis. THANK GOD.
Why am I happy to discover that I was a bitch? It shows that I was and am capable of writing without being fucking terrified of offending. MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH IN LITTLE SOFIE’S SELF-PERCEPTION.
Now I am going to jump to something that seemingly has nothing to do with self-perception, so bare with me. You will get a cookie.
I am not a brilliant writer. I am not a gifted talent and English is not even my first language. I will try to be eloquent, because I have been told that I can be, but sometimes it will be quick and without strain and, ultimately, I am writing for me. I am writing because I know I have things to say where I cannot be the only person to feel this way, even if it feels like that sometimes. I believe that we are constantly growing and I want to be able to look back on this and both say, “Thank God I am not like that anymore” and “Thank God I was like that once”.
Just like I did with my diary.
So welcome to my diary.