Of things past

There was a time, a short while ago, when I would care about how many persons viewed my blogs. I took a keen interest in hit counts. For my first blog, I would make comments on other well known blogs just to get my blog's name in the lime light (no pun intended). I would place my blog's link on many sites just to generate interest in the contents of the blog.

Many people were interested in what I had to write and the photos I posted. I was quoted a few times by those in the know and apparently I was creative, insightful and talented. Apparently is the operative word.

At some point, I began to feel disconnected from my writings and I struggled to keep on going. I created other blogs to fill the gap, explore other parts of me, to recapture the real me or to operationalise the initial idea I had in mind when I first started to blog.

Little by little, I found no joy in logging in to my blogs, my various personalities have merged into a little monster who no longer cared to separate or compartmentalise the various segments of my mind. I was exposed, naked to the elements but encased in a shell. I felt the pains of rejection, betrayal, abandonment, failure and indifference all in one.

At the end of that period, I decided to escape from it all. The blogs are deleted, this one was created after their demise.

I do not care to pander for attention, I may slip an occasional tweet on twitter about a new post but I will not actively market this blog. As it doesn't matter to me if it is read or not.

100 views meant I've visited this blog 100 times.

I come, sometimes not to post but to look at my greatest treasure, the treasure held in my unworthy hands.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the things of the past, to revisit the extraordinary places I've seen, to do things differently, to recapture my youth. But if I do that I will not be able to experience the blessings of the present, the gifts of God and the passion to express myself.

The negativity that flows out of me may make one wonder if I'm depressed or morbid. On the contrary, confession is good for the soul.

My Shell

I haven't written anything for a while. It seems like my creative juice has dried up. All that remains is the shell of a once vibrant mind. A mind that could have done anything, climb the highest mountain, walk in the most fearsome jungle, travel to outer space... Alas reality has collared me, boxed me behind the ears and set me straight.

I'm no genius, no potential was unexplored. I only said that to convince myself that I could have done better. In reality, I probably did the best I could. You tell yourself a lie over and over again, it probably would become your truth. Its hard to separate fiction from reality in such a state. Its hard to determine if you really love someone or are by their side because of some sense of duty or obligation.

How do I account for the time I've wasted dreaming big dreams, telling no promising to fulfil aspirations that are beyond my reach? Why did I think I could have reached those heights? Who fooled me? Who made me believe in myself? Critics? Friends? Enemies? Family?

A dose of the plain truth would have put me in my place earlier in life. Instead the praises, yes those false praises, the little lies, the bending of the truth, probably not to hurt my feelings have done me more harm than good.

I have a family that deserves better, not the lies I feed them to cover up for my inadequacy to provide all that they need. The cycle continues, I lie to give them a false sense of security. A hope for a brighter tomorrow, a line behind the dark clouds, they are nonexistent.

I go into my shell to keep others out, to shield my vulnerability, to mourn for my imaginary potential, to die a coward's death.