Gotta post to please all you faithful lurkers. Don't know who you are, but you are, so . . . gotta post something. I mean, a whole nine hours have gone by, but you need your Nick fix, right?
If you really look at it, it's quite bizarre to be writing an online diary. Can you imagine if you hand-wrote your thoughts of the day and affixed it to a bulletin board on a busy college campus? I thought not . . . but basically, that's what I and all the rest of the bloggers are doing. It's the online part that is the disconnect. (And I never knew that was a noun until I wrote it . . .)
Since I can't physically see you, I just assume you're not there. Oh, but you most definitely are. And it's quite hard to get used to: some stranger is reading this and I've never met them and I probably never will.
But it's also strangely liberating. I often post and then reread the next day and delete because I don't feel the same way any more; be it rage, goofiness, drama, what have you . . . but hey, that's why reality shows are so popular! Somehow we all like to see someone else's life ravel/unravel in real time, don't we? Then we actually feel like we know them personally on some level. But we don't.
So what is reality like at this moment? Drinking a Boréale Cuivrée and analyzing my latest tune on the usual headphones, sun milking the shojis and contemplating getting in an hour or so of guitar practice, not even thinking about what's for dinner, only knowing that it won't be involving meat.
So . . . there's your fix.
Happy now?
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