Most of us love change in its simplest form. A change in seasons, a change in clothes, and a change of jobs – we except, and sometimes even enjoy. Recently, my friend lost access to her blog, which she had created and come to love. However, it was not her first blog but her second. She was debating as to moving into her old blog or starting one afresh. I haven’t followed up with her regarding her decision, but that debate spun off a thought in my head.
Late last year, I created a new blog for a new beginning, a new direction a new me! I have written stuff that I like, I don’t like, I will miss, tell and never kiss, but it lacks the “real sense of me” -- an idealistic dreamer and a story teller -- who in an impulsive spree opened her own book, opened a book as an ode to her life. It was real, honest and even brutal sometimes. Well, most of the times. But the people I spoke about, tarnished or plain pointed fingers at understood why I wrote them. It was personal but it wasn’t me taking things personally. Every time I feel like writing a heart rendering post I run back to my old one. The new one is a pretty dress. The old one is me, sitting in front of a mirror finishing up a long day’s work, mascara running down my cheek along with tears, after a performance worthy of a standing ovation.
Late last year, I created a new blog for a new beginning, a new direction a new me! I have written stuff that I like, I don’t like, I will miss, tell and never kiss, but it lacks the “real sense of me” -- an idealistic dreamer and a story teller -- who in an impulsive spree opened her own book, opened a book as an ode to her life. It was real, honest and even brutal sometimes. Well, most of the times. But the people I spoke about, tarnished or plain pointed fingers at understood why I wrote them. It was personal but it wasn’t me taking things personally. Every time I feel like writing a heart rendering post I run back to my old one. The new one is a pretty dress. The old one is me, sitting in front of a mirror finishing up a long day’s work, mascara running down my cheek along with tears, after a performance worthy of a standing ovation.
