I'm not entirely sure what it is about livejournal, or blogging in general that enthralls me. I peruse several of the same journals on a regular, if not daily, basis, and I'm always moved. Intrigued. Curious.
I suppose it might the idea of peering into someone's mind and glimpsing, even for a moment, what they are doing or thinking. And yet, when I peruse my own journal I don't get a sense of self. I write in simple words on here, and never put too much emotion into any of the entries. I had hopes of making this journal something more. Something special. Something I would want to visit on a regular basis. And yet it's not.
I find my life utterly boring most days, and the notion of writing any of the occurences down seems benign. I read a lot. My Mom is, honestly, one of my best friends, and I'm a home body. I start things I never finish, my room is ALWAYS a fucking mess, and I enjoy playing computer or console video games. I aspire to taking photographs, scanning my millions of sketches and sharing them.
And yet.
And yet I never get around to it. I do nothing all day and yet time flies by and i still try to take time to fit important things in. And fail.
It's an odd feeling, this sharing thoughts with comlpete strangers. I suppose of I had more people visit this journal it would maybe make it feel different. But I don't. I have a few, a good few, who are kind enough to read and comment, and for that I am thankful.
And yet, even as I write this, I know i will again, sometime soon, log on and make another inane post about something irrelevant. I could be wise and say it's cathartic, but it's not. I enjoy this little community of people. Even if most don't know I read their journals, or wouldn't even care that I take the time to comment, I still am drawn in.
And so, I suppose I will need to give this some effort or keep my thoughts and words to myself. I will try.
I suppose it might the idea of peering into someone's mind and glimpsing, even for a moment, what they are doing or thinking. And yet, when I peruse my own journal I don't get a sense of self. I write in simple words on here, and never put too much emotion into any of the entries. I had hopes of making this journal something more. Something special. Something I would want to visit on a regular basis. And yet it's not.
I find my life utterly boring most days, and the notion of writing any of the occurences down seems benign. I read a lot. My Mom is, honestly, one of my best friends, and I'm a home body. I start things I never finish, my room is ALWAYS a fucking mess, and I enjoy playing computer or console video games. I aspire to taking photographs, scanning my millions of sketches and sharing them.
And yet.
And yet I never get around to it. I do nothing all day and yet time flies by and i still try to take time to fit important things in. And fail.
It's an odd feeling, this sharing thoughts with comlpete strangers. I suppose of I had more people visit this journal it would maybe make it feel different. But I don't. I have a few, a good few, who are kind enough to read and comment, and for that I am thankful.
And yet, even as I write this, I know i will again, sometime soon, log on and make another inane post about something irrelevant. I could be wise and say it's cathartic, but it's not. I enjoy this little community of people. Even if most don't know I read their journals, or wouldn't even care that I take the time to comment, I still am drawn in.
And so, I suppose I will need to give this some effort or keep my thoughts and words to myself. I will try.
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