Nameless
Many are the reasons why I've undertaken this endeavor anonymously. The most relevant is this: I don't often find this voice. However uninteresting these writings may be, the voice I hear in my head every day is even more so.
There are times during the day when I want to write something here...when my best friend snubbed me, when I looked in the mirror and saw my mother, when I stood on top of the tallest building in town and gloried in the magnificent view...but I cannot find any but the most ordinary words.
My inner monologue, in its monkey-like fashion, pratters on about body image and finances and political science, all in very plain, uninteresting, yawn-inducing sentence fragments. Feeling-pictures. The scent of blooming lilacs mixes with a childhood memory and suddenly I'm smelling their fragrance as a three-year-old on a tricycle, which reminds me of the episode of a favorite television show when everyone flashes poignantly back to their early years.
That's my life, not this sometimes clever, insightful stuff. Without any name attached, no one urges me to keep producing, asks "why haven't you written anything on your blog in awhile?" No one corners me, saying, "I never knew you were bulimic!" It's safe here in Anonymousland.
We all wonder who Outer Life Guy is, but the distance he puts between us and him by not giving us even his first name is enormous. It keeps us at arm's length, further than that, even. No familiarity is offered or welcomed. It's perfect. We stay over here, behind this line, standing politely.
Maybe that's what I'm aiming for; an audience that is interested, but far away.
And yet I crave comments that aren't here, tidbits from people who don't know who I am, but who read intimate details of my life.
It's a strange fascination; "Love me, but please stay over there. Thank you."
There are times during the day when I want to write something here...when my best friend snubbed me, when I looked in the mirror and saw my mother, when I stood on top of the tallest building in town and gloried in the magnificent view...but I cannot find any but the most ordinary words.
My inner monologue, in its monkey-like fashion, pratters on about body image and finances and political science, all in very plain, uninteresting, yawn-inducing sentence fragments. Feeling-pictures. The scent of blooming lilacs mixes with a childhood memory and suddenly I'm smelling their fragrance as a three-year-old on a tricycle, which reminds me of the episode of a favorite television show when everyone flashes poignantly back to their early years.
That's my life, not this sometimes clever, insightful stuff. Without any name attached, no one urges me to keep producing, asks "why haven't you written anything on your blog in awhile?" No one corners me, saying, "I never knew you were bulimic!" It's safe here in Anonymousland.
We all wonder who Outer Life Guy is, but the distance he puts between us and him by not giving us even his first name is enormous. It keeps us at arm's length, further than that, even. No familiarity is offered or welcomed. It's perfect. We stay over here, behind this line, standing politely.
Maybe that's what I'm aiming for; an audience that is interested, but far away.
And yet I crave comments that aren't here, tidbits from people who don't know who I am, but who read intimate details of my life.
It's a strange fascination; "Love me, but please stay over there. Thank you."