I always thought there was wisdom in what my former boss would always advise me about my blog. Remove the “icky stuff”, try not to be too personal, be more informative, less heart. Believe me, I tried.
The problems was, I wasn’t quite sure I could blog if not driven by an overwhelming emotional force, i.e. extreme loneliness I often blame on hormones or quarter-life, uncontainable excitement over a new gadget or an online shop I accidentally found, or strong feelings for something or someone I was momentarily crazy about. Hence, I continued blogging with my heart on my sleeve (or in this case, at the tip of my fingers).
And I like it. I like clicking the publish button after pouring my heart out on a post. I like that this blog has become my stage, that through it I get to share trinkets of my life to an audience composed not only of my mother and a bunch of loyal friends, but also unknown readers, lurkers, and bored people who probably just got here because they Googled “Bella’s blue room in Twilight” or “how to make something with tuna” (srsly?).
Point is, there was just no way I could blog without giving away a tiny portion huge serving of my heart. Otherwise, it wouldn’t at all be.. me.
And it served me well, this heart-blog, my probono therapist of sorts. Having been a blogger for about a decade now, it just doesn’t feel right anymore to not have a little space in the web to fill with the big and small things happening in my life, albeit the sporadity of my posts, if sporadity is even a word.
On the downside, I’ve come to acknowledge the fact that publishing your thoughts on a public venue such as this makes them somehow irrevocable. I happened to have blogged about things I now wish I could delete, thoughts I’m not anymore proud of, stories I don’t want to remember.
This is the part where I confess to editing old blog posts, deleting unwanted names, sometimes even deleting entire posts altogether just because they make me cringe, as if the act would really take those parts off my past completely. I know it won’t, and Marian said it best when she said that maybe we’re not supposed to erase old scars. Still, it’s a guilty pleasure I couldn’t quite explain, and an awesome way to (uh) kill time, LOL. Please tell me I’m not the only one who’s doing this.
More than a year ago, when I spent a weekend in Cebu with Joni and Mae, while lounging in the infinity pool at Shangrila Mactan, I told my girlfriends that I was already tired keeping track of names and stories of the guys I date. (Not that there were a lot.) I told them I was ready to keep just one name in my heart, and to make kwento about that one guy, once and for all, for the rest of my life. I don’t know if J & M remember, but I like relieving moments like that, especially now that the time has finally come.
If you’ve been following my blog/s for the past couple of years and have read some boys’ names here and there, or maybe even seen a photograph or two, well, forget all the other names except this one:
From here on, he’s the only man I’m ever going to write about.