blogging

somebody told me not to write a blog when you re down and out. increases your "existential angst", she said. makes sense. a previous experience with blog left me writing things I never would say to people, random people, but only to myself in conversations with her.

but now, three years later, as i find myself in a really new place, with her far, far away, at moments with no one to talk to, i turn again to this easy place.

i think to myself- i could write in my diary- that book which has so much of me, which if another read would think that the long life of 23 years has been a series of depressing moods, and that I could possibly not have been happy ever. but i dont write in it. i cannot anymore. its as if its life-span is over. brief attempts to revive it have failed and i am left with nothing to pour my angst into. nothing. except this.

this flicker of space. in a world where i am anonymous. the relative anonymity of this space-my blog-means i could say so much and yet maintain the sanctity of the thought, the emotion. i suppose.

and as i end this post, the mind goes back to how it violated the space of two people who had found each other through this medium. by reading their entries to each other about each other. and regret is overwhelming at ever having told them that i intruded into their space.

somethings are best kept silent.