If you were able to read last week it was because I had given you the password. Don’t feel slighted if you didn’t receive one. I never actually got around to sending them. It was a good thing. It made me realize that having a password is just way too much work.
I seriously suffer from a common, but incurable condition characterized by avoidance, apathy, slothfulness, idleness, evasion, to name a few symptoms, or basically….. laziness. To make it even worse, I am that stupid kind of lazy that expends more effort in trying to get around things, than if I just hunkered down and did them.
During the writing hiatus caused by working at trying to figure out how not to do to the work of a password dispersal, I gave the necessity of this site some intermittent processing time during the occasional lull in my attention requirements. I was surprised by the resulting idea, that it might not be the easy choice of privacy, but obsession, which prompted the password fiasco.
In my new quest to be genuine and transparent, I must acknowledge that I have enjoyed having my post read and liked; obsessively. This leads me to wonder what bias, this desire for praise, has worked into the honesty of the pieces. Is vanity destroying the benefit that can be reaped from candid introspection?
I do get that not everything has to be serious. Besides, I am way too lazy to sustain the degree of effort it takes to look beyond the words for any extended length of time, but more than that, I would not be willing to give up the unexpected pleasure rush of a spontaneous quick write, of light laughable stuff and nonsense.
However, as looked at in a previous post, there is more to this writing thing than just fun and non-tangible words on a page. I have not wanted to explore what it might be, but it continues to taunt me, to edge into my thought stream and dam it up. I suppose I will have to lay this obsessive journey out from beginning to end, to search out the nuggets of insight.
But, I will do this alone, because traveling down the memory lane of someone else’s neurosis, can be as tedious as listening to their dreams. I have to imagine that this is because the listener does not have the visuals, and so much of memories and dreams are the sights, smells and sounds, and I am just not that good of a writer to make it interesting to anyone but myself.
Still I am at a crossroads, if I keep writing about the exploration of my psyche for public consumption, while being obsessed with the desire for positive feedback, will it prejudice me into being dishonest with myself, and therefore defeat the growth factor I have experienced in my personal interactions with others?
I know that I cannot stop writing; the impulse to do so is too overwhelming to ignore. Additionally, I should not go back to writing at inappropriate times, like business emails or 1000 word answers to an acquaintance’s simple question, or worst of all, back into a muted world of words, populated only by my solitary imagination.