And So We Begin Again

I messed around with blogging here during the first phase of the pandemic as a sort of release. It was a cathartic way for me to publicly worry about the collapse of the empire I call home in the wake of rampant plague and political systems failing. I got to wax poetic, and muck about with a blogging practice that I have approached in fits and starts many times since personal blogging was a thing. It was an outlet for my voice in a time when I didn't have many people to talk to.

I stopped because I always stop. I have always stopped. But the possibility of starting again hangs in the ether before me and in the dark moments before sleep takes me I think of a few lines I could have written here. It's a different kind of void to scream into.

Is it therapeutic? This is, essentially, a public private journal. I can say whatever I want from the searingly personal to the quotidian. Hell, I could talk about video games and embed my favorite Youtube videos as easily as I could tell harrowing stories about battles with depression and addiction. Can I be that open? It helps that absolutely no one is listening. But what, then, is the advantage of this kind of blogging over pen on paper in a leatherbound journal (of which I have more than I could ever fill, yet I keep buying more and striving to fill them). Are there benefits to writing it out in public even if no one really sees these words?

If a midlife crisis happens in a forest, but there's no one there to read the blog, does it make a sound?

Maybe we'll find out together. Maybe I'll find out alone.