I’ve been going over my Tumblr back catalogue and I used to write far more openly in the past. For some reason I failed to keep it up-to-date. I probably stopped writing because nobody was reading and loving my posts. My Tumblr page is offbeat, random and completely anonymous. I have 34 followers and I have no idea who they are.
I don’t use my
I find it sad how we require metrics to feel like something is worthwhile – readers, hits, likes, and stats. Does everything have to be passively read and shared by millions? Tumblr is one of the few places where I am completely honest. It’s a transcendent web experience.
Everything else I post on the Internet is just for show. A school playground where I conform and pretend to be like everyone else with varying contrarian pretensions.
In the end none of this hustling for attention really matters. I write simply to keep a record of my thoughts, views (which I endlessly revise), and places I have visited.
Sometimes I get weary of the cold light of content beaming from multiple screens. And then occasionally I read something that resonates – something heart stirring with a poetic sensibility.
Writing is about finding empathy with strangers when you least expect it.
I had just dropped out of college. I had moved back to Los Angeles. I had moved into my first apartment. I had bought an amazing couch. I had taken a picture of myself holding up Finally Truffaut to send to my ex-boyfriend. I realized I was hardly ever photographed. I wanted to change that. I was becoming an actress. I was still a poet. Slowly, I began to post pictures of myself in the morning on Facebook. It was supposed to be a joke. Who was really going to care about how I felt when I got up that morning? Then a number of people began to care. Truthfully, I just wanted to have a record of my changing. I am still changing.