I know when I was younger I kept a blog that I wrote in almost daily. It detailed some of the most banal, uninteresting, pointless events. But I think, it had to have held some significance to me. I know I had an intense shift in how I thought after having my privacy violated in almost every way imaginable.
I wrote to not forget. But I didn’t write to remember.
That has made almost every post I’ve written since some type of conscious effort to remember something. Everything seems temporary. I’m disinterested in my own life, especially when I sense it going downhill. Why would I want to consistently go, “Hey, ya fucking moron, remember this awful thing?” That’s what journaling was. It’s not what it should be.
But I rarely want to argue points. I don’t post about current events. Can I even call myself a blogger? Just some entity that writes on, what happens to be called, a blog.
I once took a writing class that centered on tumblr and using tumblr as a means of transporting and conveying stories and ideas: http://marzipanpresents.tumblr.com/ — I used it, after the fact, to reblog words and things that vaguely related to writing. I should probably get back on in.
Dat Suez Canal.