This is my third attempt at a blog.
The first was a dramatic High School-aged attempt to portray myself as mysterious and incomprehensible. Embarrassing, yes, I know. The only remnants of it are in my memory. Sometimes, the delete button is the greatest gift we are given.
The second I told no one about. I wrote through my first and second semester of college. It was an opportunity for me to bare my soul to the world, just an empty shout to the void, without drawing any real consequences. I referred to it as my self-psychotherapy, I remember (I was taking a philosophy class at the time; there was an entire post on Rene’ Descartes). I gained a surprising number of followers, but still deleted the blog in the end. It helped me through a difficult time and then its use came to an end. That’s not the entire story, of course, but that’s the only part I care to mention.
So here I am, returning to my march to the sea. Do I know what I’m going to write about? Of course not. Do I have a plan? If you think I do, I will fix that erroneous thought process quickly. But I will write and I will vent and I will rewrite. Because the fact is, no matter how many times I delete what I write, I return to it. When I write, my head gets a little clearer and my anxiety lessens. And while frequently my words are dripping with sarcasm and inside jokes with myself, as well as come across as extremely pretentious to others, and probably make no sense… Where was I going with this? Oh. Right. I do genuinely mean the things I say. I don’t want to seem mysterious and incomprehensible. I don’t want to pretend to bare my soul while actually hiding in a crowd of strangers.
The alarm on my phone says, “You will write words that change the world.” Pretentious? Yes.
But I still hope it’s true.
March to the Sea 