"People can't possibly be scared of posting in public on the internet! Ha-ha!"
- me, to a wall, some eight years ago
I'm good with fiction, at least I think so. But ask me to write something formal, coherent and the result will be less than satisfying. I am not good with putting words that make sense to real or imaginary paper and I had never been so. I struggle when writing 300-word posts elsewhere. I don't even know how to write a business e-mail without rambling.
The last time I wrote an actual blog post, it was November last year. When I look back at it, it was not particularly coherent. It was all over the place. In a way, it was slightly embarrassing. Ever since then, I've been making drafts, intending to say a thing or two, but I'm failing. A thing or two always becomes at least half a dozen.
In most cases, those posts end up being about more than one thing at the same time. I find myself unable to describe what I think was a personal transformation that took place from 2013 to 2016, peaking in the last third of 2015 on. I don't know how to explain my most recent poems, what they're about and why that means the world to me. I freak out whenever I tell myself that I want to write slice-of-life posts about the past. And I don't even know why.
So, where does the lack of coherence come from?
For a period of time, earlier this year, I was concerned about it. I wondered if I was experiencing symptoms of some mental illness that is only peeking now that I've put my physical one under control. Almost all personality systems hinted that people like me generate way too many ideas and mostly fail to follow through. Medical data said that people with strabismus have problems with concentration, same for people who experienced a period of overeating and obesity.
But was that really a recent thing?
When I look back at the beginnings of this blog eight years ago, I'm downright frightened of the word salads I used to call posts. I wouldn't want to hang out with the person who wrote them. If I was the person who was probably the unfortunate target of this, I would've disposed of me long ago.
It’s like one of those fairy tales where people turn to stone, fade from colourful to the darkest angle of the spectrum. I cannot elaborate on what my exact problem is and what’s making me cry. If something changes for the better, I’m still not going to say what it was, because I’m not a sick hypocrite or a bunch of things people often think I am (and are horribly wrong about it because this st00pid world is all about prejudice and I suffered a lot because of my own prejudice towards others).
W...what was that? How come that the person writing that was 25 and not 5 years old? The idea that the person who wrote something like that was old enough to be considered fully adult and be eligible to be a MP in the Parliament...just utterly bizarre.
But was that really a case of histrionics?
When I dive into the abyss of teenage angsty blog posts, I find those written at the time I had opened a blog on LiveJournal as an university fresher. They make even less sense. Apparently, I became frustrated with owning the computer I've wanted for thirteen years after three days of owning it. Typos are intact.
Life is too hard when you have a PC...and I am beginning to wonder if I've ever needed it al all.Does this seem to be an identity crisis?I mean,I tried to get some mp3s for the very first time in my life and after 2 hours of downloading (not to mention screwed dial up connection!)...and two songs I took were password protected,I didn't even manage to take the third one...)..the txt file said that there's a password on one website and that password didn't woek..should I throw those files away now?They costed me a lot of time and patience and I also had to suffer a pop -up windows invasion!I think I will suffer a nervous brakedown!!!!I will die if I don't delete that shit that opens 16 windows at once and talks about nude Britney and whoever!!!!*kicking the keyboard*
W...what was that? How come that the person writing that was 19 and not 9 years old? The idea that the person who wrote something like that was old enough to drive a car and vote at the presidential elections is...nightmare fuel.
But was it really an internet thing?
In high school, I spent four years surrounded by people who were, in a way, anti-art as much as they were pro-math. They preferred to structure their half-term literature essays as literary analyses, going through what they thought the writer had wanted to say or, more often, memorising somebody else's analysis and forming an informed opinion. Me, I loved to write stories inspired by the writers' motives. For some reason, the teacher was allowing me to get away with it.
When the time came to write the graduation essay, no creativity was allowed. I was petrified. We had five books to choose from to analyse and thirty-eight of us were taking the test in my classroom. I'm pretty sure everybody else picked Albert Camus' The Stranger and I was the one nut who went with Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I still don't know how I got the 5 on that thing, since I identified with the author and the characters, instead of referencing whatever literary analyst.
If there was a verdict here, the judge would appear and their head would explode.
So, why wouldn't I at least try to work on this? Write posts that are not obscure verses and see if they are coherent?
This post probably served as a demonstration of the problem it described.
 - Grades in elementary and high schools go from 1 (lowest) to 5 (highest).