I think the timing of trying to make headway with what I write here couldn't be better. On one hand, I call myself a "strategist: content" and devise solutions for readers and others, and on the other hand, I struggle to think about what do I put here. Do I write the first deranged thought that pops in my head and hope for it to pass like a fart or do I tweet it and release the urge to say nonsense? 

To be fair, I did well with this page. I always thought this would go out when I go out but somehow I managed to fuck this relationship. It's the only one that matters outside of the one I have with my family— my blog and I have persevered through the shitstorms including school, colleges, jobs, heartbreaks, boyfriend woes, and friendship blues. We've seen great times together through bad writing and bad times together through good writing. It's an odd sort of a relationship in a way that when I felt I improved as a writer, I stopped coming here to pour my heart out. It felt our relationship had nothing left.

Until last night, in an act of self-preservation and seeking answers to some long-pending closures, I found myself rummaging through the posts of 2013. It's true that I unpublished a chunk of content between 2007-2013 but it's also true that I am cleaning my history as we go along. There will come a time, this page will be a dead, decaying landfill of memories past and I won't remember any of it. Maybe for the best. 

Anyway, the 2013 archive was an eye-opener in many ways. For one, I wrote consistently. I was surprised at the frequency of posting and the ability to write that well for a 22-year-old who was struggling to cope with the very first episode of first-hand heartbreak and loss of good friendships. I was also amazed at the maturity I had shown despite dying daily. If I look back, I remember very little of the good times however, the blog has all of it. What I do, however, remember is all of my bad times and the blog contains very little about them. 

In a way, that's been a pattern; this whitewashing of my own emotions is wild. I saw someone had recently whitewashed a lived reality, as recent as a week ago and I was amazed at their tenacity. To a large extent, being brain dead does it to you but it's also a result of when you spend your time all to your convenience and just for yourself. In that case, what's a reality and what's an illusion? It's all a beautiful creation of your convenience. I could be sitting in the room and tweeting, "Just touched grass 20/10 experience, highly recommend!" But, did I really touch any grass and disconnect from my convenience?