Tying up oneself subliminally.

One of the reasons why this blog was started was to instill a sense that my own voice mattered. Everyday it seemed ideas and debates were raging, coming and going, like a headache or a sprain seeking medical attention. It's little comfort to know that these words are tip-toeing from my fingers and filling up pixels to be born again somewhere else (most likely on my own screens no doubt!)

Of course there is a desire for me to be seen, to be read, to exhibit more of my trueness than my physical and social self can communicate. Can words in a blog be the antidote to inadequacy and emptiness? Can it augment my existence in reality, my "more than meets the eye" accessory?

I'm going to begin by stating "my" obvious when it comes to writing words. It can be lonely and unrewarding, yet unrelenting in how it cages me to perfect their flow, iteration after iteration. Words are kind of a mirror that reflects beyond ourselves and back (like transparent flesh sandwiched between two reflections), reaching into a multiverse of possible interpretations that recursively cancels itself. Day after day, the thoughts in my mind come at me in wet lashes, a permanent 24/7 channel surf that tows me away from the shoreline into a vast turbulent sea of memes. I wonder if my creation of self would exist in the same manner 2000 years ago? But there's no time for yesterday.

This blog might be a life line that I can reach for to get back to safer shores, where I can feel the sand between my toes and let sunbeams bounce off my forehead. So this is how the entry ends, free, unadulterated and flowing from my fingers, pixels to be born again in an optimistic future?





(image: The Masterpiece, Mysteries of the Horizon by René Magritte)