Fickle Heart
Just discovered my blog no longer exists in the world wide web (due to neglect, I must say) and I somehow found enough strength and courage in me to terminate the account on the hosting site (because CLEARLY it wasn’t hosting it at all at this point).
I don’t know how I feel.
A bit of loss, I imagine. All those years of writing. And memories. The end of an era.
I can’t even trace the old bits.
I did however find the very first makings of my blog (which is still up, surprisingly - whoever said free hosting ain’t great?) and it amazes me to realise the last entry on it was dated all the way back in 2008.
Wow.
#10yearschallenge indeed, you don’t say.
I still get fleeting memories of my blog. Some writings. I am pretty sure there is a a way to extract those writings, there was an app I used to write all these blog posts - I must find it again.
I went back to Tumblr - but I didn’t know what I was looking for.
Was I looking for another (cyber) space, to regurgitate my thoughts and feelings? Was I looking for an escape, to hide my stories and pretentious poetry? Was I looking for…a distraction?
In the last 2 years, one of the invaluable habits I’ve picked up was to slowly withdraw my heart from the public eye. For a long, long time, I have left my heart dangling on my sleeves. Sure I gained a small teeny tiny circle of readership, and that small great satisfaction of knowing I’ve been read, but apart from that - I gained nothing else but that my heart was out there in the open. How dangerous.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but slowly I see that it is all rather pointless. And sometimes embarrassing when people bring up your writing in conversations too, may I say. Too many opinions in the world, everybody’s reading about them, the good, the bad, the wise, the fake. I found myself getting annoyed. So what are the chances that someone else was getting annoyed at my opinions, too?
Like right now. Why am I even writing all this down?
Habit. Once a writer, always a writer? Can’t really call myself a writer. I hardly write these days. My handwriting is atrocious now.
But, habit.
So, no, I don’t think I was looking for a space, or an escape. I no longer feel the impulsive need or urge to be displayed in public. I just want a peaceful, quiet life. I don’t know.
I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
A. xx
I don’t know how I feel.
A bit of loss, I imagine. All those years of writing. And memories. The end of an era.
I can’t even trace the old bits.
I did however find the very first makings of my blog (which is still up, surprisingly - whoever said free hosting ain’t great?) and it amazes me to realise the last entry on it was dated all the way back in 2008.
Wow.
#10yearschallenge indeed, you don’t say.
I still get fleeting memories of my blog. Some writings. I am pretty sure there is a a way to extract those writings, there was an app I used to write all these blog posts - I must find it again.
I went back to Tumblr - but I didn’t know what I was looking for.
Was I looking for another (cyber) space, to regurgitate my thoughts and feelings? Was I looking for an escape, to hide my stories and pretentious poetry? Was I looking for…a distraction?
In the last 2 years, one of the invaluable habits I’ve picked up was to slowly withdraw my heart from the public eye. For a long, long time, I have left my heart dangling on my sleeves. Sure I gained a small teeny tiny circle of readership, and that small great satisfaction of knowing I’ve been read, but apart from that - I gained nothing else but that my heart was out there in the open. How dangerous.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but slowly I see that it is all rather pointless. And sometimes embarrassing when people bring up your writing in conversations too, may I say. Too many opinions in the world, everybody’s reading about them, the good, the bad, the wise, the fake. I found myself getting annoyed. So what are the chances that someone else was getting annoyed at my opinions, too?
Like right now. Why am I even writing all this down?
Habit. Once a writer, always a writer? Can’t really call myself a writer. I hardly write these days. My handwriting is atrocious now.
But, habit.
So, no, I don’t think I was looking for a space, or an escape. I no longer feel the impulsive need or urge to be displayed in public. I just want a peaceful, quiet life. I don’t know.
I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
A. xx
“My heart, my heart, my fickle heart.” - Ira Wolf
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