Obviously, with postings as scarce as a competent cashier, it's clear that posting blog entries is of no interest to me anymore. The thrill is gone. The original purpose of this blog has long since passed and the cathartic blast I once felt from posting has gone from exciting to obligation to hassle.
Several of my friends write blogs on various subjects, all better written than mine. When word got around of what I was up to, their eyes turned to my words and I instantly felt inferior. Reading their stuff made me feel like a 3rd-grade creative writing student, someone just learning how to conjugate. The blog was no longer just a purging of my thoughts but it had to be done in such a way that the people whom I knew were reading it would be floored by my prose. Then I would read something of theirs and realize it was a pointless endeavor to try and match them. I was in over my head and stepped back. That said, I'm enjoying this right now. I know, I'm a weird guy.
I've wanted to write about politics, I wanted to muse about death, I wanted to explore why I can never shut off my mind. I've sat in my "writing chair" and determined before signing in that it just wasn't worth it. This wasn't a case of writer's block, or a matter of indifference. I felt that I couldn't continue to live up to the high expectations I had set for myself. So I walked away.
Everyone has a blog now. Everyone gives their thoughts for the world to read, or posts idiotic videos to Youtube for all to digest. No one keeps thoughts to themselves anymore. Tonight, my gal is out with a friend and it's just me, the dog, and a homemade quesadilla (with chicken). There will be lots of silence. I'll be happy and at the same time wonder what's wrong.