Why blog? Why write things down and put them up on a portion of some hardrive somwhere, not knowing where they're gonna end up? Illusions of grandeur? I hardly think so.
I once read somewhere that a piece of written work, a real piece of art, is born when something becomes so choking, some idea that will eat you alive if you don't write it down, that you finally do. Every moment leading up to it is nothing but agony agony for the one bearing it.
I may never have that moment. And frankly, creating this blog was nothing but impulsive. Hey, I'm 16, I'm allowed to be impulsive. I had something to say, and nothing stopped me. Simple as that.
But looking back, it was all the constricted ennui of living in a society were words were murdered, where sentences, if you could still call them that, were nothing but truncated, languished bastards of order that once existed, if ever. I felt that everything I left unsaid, every day of my waking life, would take my life or worse, my peace if I didn't express them.
Not to be condescending, but I have relapsed at conversations, realizing that the entire length of things said by a particular person could be condensed into nothing more than a paragraph. You just need the right words.
