i'm going to depart from my normal program for a moment. bear with me. i'm writing to you all (if there are any of you) to let you know that i've heard your voice. this is your voice. this stupid, ridiculous webpage that we spill our souls onto, as if it's some diary. would we really want people we don't care about seeing these things? maybe we would. so why do we do it?
and it struck me, i've written about love. and lust. i've written about wanting to have sex and i've written about my family troubles, and my ambitions, and my frustrations, and anyone who wanted to spend the time could put what i've written here into a coherent image. and the scary thing is, that image isn't me. do you see what i'm saying? i've traversed styles and imagery trying to establish who i am on this little blog, and it's so incomplete.
hell, i don't see what i'm saying. i guess i mean that i would like to know everyone who reads this. i would like to see what they think of me, and i would like to smile and them and know that we share this little link. i know some of you already, and chances are i like you a lot.
then again, maybe this was pointless.
1 comment:
well, you know i read this.
and i guess...i don't think definition is necessary, nor would i use the words stupid or pointless. which is not to say you do not have the right to. we (you and anyone else who writes, that is) are what we are. we write what we write. there is the beautiful and the ugly and the good and the bad and the tearful and the ecstatic and it's all hurled in together. no right. no wrong. just here. and yes, it is incomplete. but that is to be expected. how could we ever, ever fit our whole beings on a page like this? so, maybe the image isn't done, or hasn't come out in the right shape yet. but...that's okay. maybe the image is only a little piece. maybe more and more images must be added to create one huge picture. maybe not.
because no matter how much you put on a page, you are still out there flying in the world.
and this comes from someone who as you know smears her mind all over pages.
keep going. you never know what you will find or make. and there is a beauty to all this, i think. there is so much in this little page, in this whole world, in your mind. dickinson said it best:
http://www.bartleby.com/113/1126.html
(and maybe i have just missed your point entirely and made no sense at all. in which case, i am sorry and mildly embarrassed.)
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