I Write…Revisited.

..and you, my Face­less friend, read… (You can read the orig­i­nal con­tent that fol­lowed that intro­duc­tion here. For the new and old, it might be good con­text for the steam­ing men­tal detri­tus stream of con­scious­ness that fol­lows.)

That was the orig­i­nal premise: I Write, You Read. (And, on occa­sion, You Com­ment.) But that was the extent of it, real­ly. Or at least, that’s what I believed our rela­tion­ship to be based upon. I was con­fi­dent that our affin­i­ty was based on this one sim­ple rule;  but as it turns out, it nev­er real­ly was. And then, some­where along the way, it all changed.

But it wasn’t real­ly “some­where along the way” at all, was it. I stopped writ­ing, full stop: and in doing so, I rup­tured the I Write/You Read Con­tin­u­um we’ve both been trapped in all this time, there­by starv­ing it of its rea­son for being and giv­ing you no real rea­son to be here (although I do still get an unusu­al num­ber of pings from Aus­tralia, and the occa­sion­al note from Mrs. Tema Williams from Zim­bab­we who, after los­ing her hus­band last year, is in des­per­ate need of  my help in mov­ing $42MILLION AMERICAAN DOLAR out of the coun­try. Weird on both fronts, but appre­ci­at­ed; I cer­tain­ly could use the cash. I’ll get back to you with that copy of my pass­port short­ly, Tema). Now whether I stopped because I sim­ply dis­re­gard­ed the urge to pen every inane, non­sen­si­cal thought I had and blast it out for you to mull over and muse about, or whether I just stopped see­ing the things that thrilled, or dis­gust­ed, or intrigued me is some­thing still open for debate. Per­son­al­ly, I think it’s much more than that.

I used to believe that I wrote for fun, or for enter­tain­ment: mine, yours, per­haps some strange com­bi­na­tion of both. I used to believe that my trig­ger to write was a defense against the bore­dom that was always lurk­ing behind me, threat­en­ing to slith­er over my shoul­ders and ulti­mate­ly smoth­er me. (This last the­o­ry has some valid­i­ty: despite my best inten­tions, I can exhib­it the same men­tal behav­iours of a four year old on a sug­ar high. Have I men­tioned I drink a lot of cof­fee? I think I need lunch. Is that a squir­rel…?)

And maybe all of that is true, each point in its own way. But the past sev­er­al months of NOT writ­ing have led me to believe that I don’t actu­al­ly do this to enter­tain, or to edu­cate you; I don’t pen any of this to stir up “con­tro­ver­sy” or dis­cord, to move you or to even put a much-need­ed smile on your face (dis­claimer: admit­ted­ly, and quite self­ish­ly, I hope that my words have the ability—regardless of how small—to do any or all of those things).  I write to process and to deci­pher the world around me: to give myself a larg­er lens to scru­ti­nize the way I think and the opin­ions I form, to dis­sect who I am and what I believe to be true or false and to lay it out for analy­sis at the feet of those wis­er than I am. And that “larg­er lens”, my Face­less friend, is You.

Why in the hell would you want to pros­trate your­self  to a bunch of ran­dom face­less strangers on the Inter­webs, you may find your­self ask­ing. I believe it’s more than sim­ply being a glut­ton for abuse, self-inflict­ed or oth­er­wise (I’m not rul­ing that out), or evi­dence of my desire to jump onto my scaly friend’s back, or to pull his jaws open and stuff my head inside, dar­ing him to chomp down. I believe it is more than cathar­sis or escapism: it’s my own strange evo­lu­tion at play, and I’ve dragged you kick­ing and scream­ing into it for the sim­ple, remark­able fact that YOU ARE NOT ME. Instead, you are equal parts ther­a­pist, spir­it ani­mal and car­ni­val mir­ror: you take my images and words and twist them into occa­sion­al­ly-com­i­cal and often-hideous car­i­ca­tures of what they once were before feed­ing them back to me. And through that process, I grow. You see, I’ve come to realise that you’re not my audi­ence at all: you’re the reflec­tion I need to make me bet­ter than I am.

As is always the case, every­thing pre­ced­ing this line could be pure, utter bullshit—this is me, after all—and I’m sim­ply in need of medication/better medication/a hob­by. Per­haps, “some­where along the way”, we’ll fig­ure it out togeth­er.

(I would nor­mal­ly end this with -Your Writer but you know who I am — and I plan on doing my part to rebuild our lit­tle con­tin­u­um. I hope you’ll do the same.)

Lat­er, Face­less.

2 Comments

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  1. Squir­rel, squir­rel, squir­rel. Sor­ry, shiny thing type dis­trac­tion…

    Nice to have you back, face­ful. Keep writ­ing what­ev­er the rea­son, need or desire.

  2. Wel­come back — keep writ­ing — I’ll keep read­ing and so it will go 🙂

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