Sharing of yourself is fraught. I've been talking and talking, but that's a world away from consciously conveying any particular idea. I've never given much thought to how my blogs must come off to someone reading them, because it's much easier to write without a whole lot of thought... as with anything else. In fact it's striking me now how similarly I regret my "real" interactions, as if what comes naturally is somehow ingenuine, as if everything I produce must be siphoned through intellect to attain worthiness. I know, consciously, that I need to leave myself opportunities for spontaneity, but what I want more than anything is to work hard, put my sweat and tears into something that I can later feel is worth it. That feeling of necessity frightens me into, most of the time, not beginning anything I care about, keeping my writing low-risk and myself regretful that I still haven't produced anything to be proud of.

It takes hard work to be genuine, which always comes down to that choice of what (not) to share. I've always envied people who can throw out a few charming phrases, tantalizingly brief, while my weary and bedraggled prose limps through paragraph after paragraph. I can edit it down, but the problem boils down to not knowing what it is I wanted to say about myself in the first place. Why do I have this desire to share parts of myself anyway? I could be writing about all the other things I find interesting - and taking pictures of them - and stick with that. Not that I will.