Haven’t blogged for over 7 months, re-reading my old entries I wonder if that’s because for the large part I’ve been too contented to think, or perhaps just too busy to muse on an issue to the extent of publishing it for all the web to see. Even now I’m reluctant to start blogging again because the only times I do so is when there’s something playing on my mind, something I need to work through, and often the only way for me to do that is to externalise it, in a vain attempt to get outside of my own head. The thing is blogging isn’t just externalising it its putting it out there in such an distastefully exhibitionist way, giving everyone access to the trivial wanderings of my brain when no one actually cares, but then I guess they don’t have to read it if they don’t want to…
Alternatively I suppose I could write a personal blog, although the point in that seems to defeat me. A blog that only you can see? Why not just use a pen and paper, or write yourself a word document or something? Maybe I’m missing something but I just fail to see the point of a personal blog. University only (or University and Alumni which I just noticed was an option) I understand, there might be things you want to express of yourself within the Warwick Bubble, including your Warwick Blog, which you don’t want the rest of the world to know about, but writing a blog that no-one else will ever see? The entire point of a blog is that its attention seeking, even if you don’t specifically want people to read it the whole point in writing it is that people might read it and can then comment on your opinions etc. If you’re the only person who’s ever going to be able to read it what is the point in publishing it on the World Wide Web at all?
I suppose just the writing of it can be cathartic, in fact I don’t just suppose I factually know that expressing your inner most thoughts in any kind of physical way can be cathartic, just to get it out in the open in some form can help clear through the chaos…maybe that’s just me. And I guess having your own personal blog here to re-read over is helpful, like finding an old diary from when you were younger and marvelling at how self obsessed/self depreciating/ridiculous you were, an e-diary as it were. Actually thinking about it I do understand personal blog entries, it is exactly like having a diary with a lock on it, the way so many of us did as children/early teenagers, the girls certainly. I can’t make this a personal entry though, if I want to write to myself I’ll get an actual diary, there’s no point in blogging for me if it doesn’t indulge my inner exhibitionist.
I seem to have gone completely off the topic I had in mind when I first started typing, ranting instead about whether or not to rant, ridiculous. The grass is always greener, that seems to just about sum up a large aspect of my personality, an aspect I don’t particularly like. I’m never satisfied, there’s always something else that I want that’s on the other side, yet I know if I ever get there what I had will look better, with hind sight. Yet in contrast I’ll settle for whatever I can get, in many respects, out of fear of nothing, that being fear of there being nothing at all, rather than there being nothing I’m afraid of. I’ll lie down and let people walk all over me and put up with things for fear of losing what I actually have, even though it may not be what I want. I live my life like a supermarket queuing system, trying to pick the fastest queue, the best one, trying to decide whether to jump into another one but wanting to do so without losing my place in the one I’m in just in case it turns out I was right to begin with. Strategising myself into settling, all the while longing for that perfect grass just over the horizon.
It really is ridiculous that I can be completely happy with what I’ve got, until I see someone else has something better, or at least something I think is better, and my eyes turn as green as that perfect grass. Yet the problem is, when I do control myself, force myself to be happy with what I’ve got and who I am I still end up with this niggling question of whether I am compromising, and whether I could in fact do better, be better, if only I didn’t settle, if only I’d tried harder, been more patient and so on. The more I think about it all the more it really does feel like queuing at the supermarket, I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end you’re still going to pay the same and leave, whether you’re out 5 minutes earlier makes very little difference. I wonder how that reflects; I suppose regardless of what actually happens time will move on to an eventual and certain conclusion, perhaps I just need to learn to be contented where I am.