Fantastic expectations, amazing revelations? Well, not quite
but I’ve decided to rush this out otherwise another day may pass without a blog
post and those empty days are becoming too frequent for my liking.
Today started out to be about my postage stamp garden backyard but it seems I got sidetracked somewhere along the way and this popped out instead. I don’t know how this happens; sometimes I wonder if I know how anything happens and then, coincidentally, I remembered the postage stamps.
Today started out to be about my postage stamp garden backyard but it seems I got sidetracked somewhere along the way and this popped out instead. I don’t know how this happens; sometimes I wonder if I know how anything happens and then, coincidentally, I remembered the postage stamps.
Anyway, fantastic expectations, amazing revelations - as Ian
Brown so brilliantly comments. Yes, I have the fear again and this time the
fear is fantastically, amazingly simple: I’m so scared of blurting out things
that I should leave unsaid that I can hardly write about myself anymore. You
see, I’m scared of losing you all, yes you, my readership without whom this
blog is pretty much pointless even though I pretend that it is all for me and
all about me.
Oh, I’m sure that you don’t have any fantastic expectations
of me and most of my revelations aren’t that amazing to you, but I have
fantastic expectations of myself in the truest state of the word – my
expectations are beyond even my own belief - and the more I reveal of myself,
chipping away layer by layer like an onion, the rawer I become. I’m scared that
I may become so raw that I might make your eyes water and make you go away leaving me to blubber like a Laurel or Hardy.
I should have written about my long awaited yucca flower or
something, anything at all to distract me from where my head keeps popping off
to. I’m scared that the laughing policeman may get called, the Cheshire cat
allowed to claw, Mr Punch to gloat (that’s the way to do it… that’s the way to show him
Sylv), the clown to swallow me up and the queen to have my head - except she has already. I’m scared
that free expression as revolution is just too hard for the fools to swallow,
not allowed even, and that finding everything and realizing; and then telling will
be my downfall.
Trapped like a spider in its own web in some room 101 of my
own making? Yes, I have the fear and is there not for everything a reason?
Riddle on riddle waiting to be revealed like a Mona Lisa smile.
The quiet desperation of not wanting it to be important that there are readers coupled with the crippling anxiety when they go away. I think all of we Bloggists suffer from that whether we want to admit it to ourselves or not.
ReplyDeleteWe're just glad you're still here...
Thanks Martin. My angst deepens daily....
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