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Sometimes

I get a little mixed up sometimes.

Sometimes I catch this bug that makes me think posting things online will accomplish something. That I will connect with someone, somewhere, somehow and be richer for it.

I start to thinking that the more of myself I expose and spill the stronger I will be, because I will have less to hide. Less to fear losing. So I make profiles. Write posts. Browse what others have written and said not out of interest in them but in order to learn their language. I grow increasingly paranoid about the representation of myself, how accurate it is. I begin oscillating between a representation of who I am in public and who I am when I speak to myself, walking in the woods. And uncertain where I fall I craft a fiction of myself that is both more and less true than my self at this moment. And so this process goes on for hours. And some bits go out into the datascape.

Some days later I look back and feel despicable. I feel I have shamed myself, been suckered into the bleating flock. I fear I have revealed my emptiness through my attempts to appear full. Rather, like the dead poets I admire, I should be holding myself silent, resilient, and productive, weaving my own terms for life and success, allowing them to mature before exposing them to the eternal deflation that is Everyone Else.

But alone, writing, working, I start to daydream about the day I’ll be praised.

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