If you had told me, back in 2006 when I first started this blog, that I would have difficulty coming up with a single post for over a year, I would have considered you slightly alarmist and dimwitted. However, I have done stranger things in the last decade than neglecting this patch of words; although there are few things I regret more.
Writing is pain; it is also a pain. This, I must clarify, is not an excuse. As I grow older, I find myself more comfortable consuming content rather than creating it. I can spend days in a haze of YouTubing, Netflixing and Instagramming, looking at the world others create, using them as proof that I am not good enough to create realms of my own. It is easy to reinforce the notion of not being good enough if you start at an early age, as I did. If you combine this with an unhealthy love of procrastination, empty blogs are born and crumble away into dust.
Today, however, write I must. The words I have suppressed have oppressed me in turn, weighed me down. They need space to breathe and to be, just as I do. I have been making so many excuses, the biggest one being that nobody cares; I am sure nobody visits this place anymore. There was once a community of people who left their thoughts behind here as well; no one does that anymore. What is the point of talking to myself over the Internet? Isn’t my mind enough for that?
A few days ago, however, I got an email from a reader, R. At first I thought it was an automated mail from Blogger or from a bot. It turns out, it’s a real person who took out the time to write me an email, telling me that I haven’t blogged since 2017 and that maybe I should again.
Thank you, R. You may not realise the scope of the kindness you have done. Thank you for reading, visiting and caring. Thanks for making me care again. I will try once more.