November 19th 2019
Today I very nearly decided not to even bother typing any of this, close my laptop, and go to bed without writing a blog. I just can’t be bothered to say much, and I also literally can’t say some stuff. Which, again, defeats the point of all of this. And I tell myself when driving home that today is going to be the day where I write this big, heartfelt, emotional speech on here about what’s actually going on in my life and how I’m actually feeling, and then it comes time to type and I can’t do it. So I’ll put it off for another day and instead write some bullshit about a trivial thing that happened in my day.
For example, today I bought a packet of Rough Cuts from the vending machine but it got stuck above the flap.
Great content. Great, honest content.
It’s weird, because it’s not like I struggle telling any of my stories out loud. I just can’t write them down any more. Which it like the opposite of how I was when I started this blog. Back then I wrote everything down because I never said it out loud. But now I can’t write things down so instead I say everything out loud. And I now overshare to friends and family rather than strangers on the internet who may read this (though those strangers are mostly friends and family)
So I guess everyone is still getting the same information, it’s just coming from a different form. If I was to psychoanalyse it, I’d say that it’s because a lot of what I have to say is not something I’m going to look back on with particular fondness or pride, so I’m protecting future me from the shame, and protecting current me from the judgement of future me. That’s very thoughtful of me. That’s quite the conclusion, actually. I’d not actually thought about that until I just thought about that. See, maybe writing does still hold some value.
Until tomorrow, it’s a shame about the Rough Cuts.