the threads in her head

-The Swan Song?

If I want to mock myself, I would say here, right now, that this blog has been a journey. A journey filled with pain and aches, with some pebbles of joy and happiness scattered along the way.

It started as an impulse, a novelty. A, "hmm. everyone is doing it. should I?" floating around in my brain. Oh, and I was encouraged to when I voiced out that little thought. I started. Basic recounts of the day. People came to tag, I said hi, we had fun. A change of blog templates now and again. Playing around with html codes, wasting hours, sending seconds into the fabric of the past.

And then on yet another impulse, I deleted the blog. Only to start a new one after a few weeks.

Ahh yes, this time I did not make it public. It was a private blog, my own blog, an outlet for some rantings here and there. Then I started to enjoy writing. And I would play around with words, play around with structure. I had fun. I won't deny that. It was somehow strangely satisfying to be able to express the nuances of something, to write something out and feel a strange sense of pride. To be happy and content with one's work. I was a player. Playing around with words, toying them, slotting, rearranging, finally in a position where everything seemed picture-perfect.

But things change, don't they? Time passed, and I wrote more often. I'm writing to clear my thoughts, I told myself. And I expressed every nuances of my thoughts, my purpose. And then after I wrote them out, seeing them in letters, in form. In something almost tangible. And I'll admit this. It was satisfying to be able to express. Why? Perhaps it was due to that element of control. Of being able to put a word here, or choose not to, or put a word there, and then look at it, and felt that indeed, that was what I wanted to say. Perhaps. What I do know, is that I often then argued with myself. I tried to qualify the reason for writing. I tried to evaluate why I write. In the midst of examining, I continued to wrote. Short stories, small quotes, dedications etc.

Friends started asking me to help them in their essays. For some others, I was their real life walking dictionary. Throw something to me, and I will willingly edit it. Into something that pleases my eyes. And it apparently pleased them too. I enjoyed editing as much as I enjoyed writing. But yes, I continued writing.

Seconds trickled and turned into minutes, which in turn became hours. And those hours made up days, which became weeks. And many weeks became months.

And now, can I still write?

Somehow, along the way, the blog link was given out. Things happened, and I gave the url to even more people. And then some more things and, "um, ok, I'll tell you my blog url". And then it was, "fine, I can give you my blog url. But would you mind not linking me?"

And in a sense I became a snob. A blog-snob, if there is such a thing. I could not bear leet langauge, I could not bear blogs that simply recouted their days. If your day was interesting, special and memorable, fine, record it then. But if you're going to blog stuff like, "oh today right, woke up at 8am. Then brush teeth lor. Then it was raining lar! So cannot go out. Haiya, stay at home, so sian leh. So I call my friend lar. But haiya, she very what lor. Never picked up her phone. So irritaing can? But never mind, I'm a nice person. Hee. Ok, nothing else to say le. Buaix Buaix"... well, I get irritated reading it halfway through.

And I don't think that's right. Who am I, to look down on people? Others, can come to my blog, and realise behind every pretty word, behind every elegant sentence, there is an immature rant by a teenager. "Written form of life tainted with romantic ideals." Yes. If the meaning of the word "life" is defined as rants and complaints, that blog description couldn't be more apt. Sheer genius in fact.

And as my link gets passed out to more and more people, some who are not even close to me, it seems like once again, I am writing just to please the random readers who comes. Just like what I did with my previous blog. I am forcing myself to write. Partly due to the readers that do come.

Partly due to the fact that somehow, some emotions are not meant to be written down at this current moment. Partly due to the fact that there are people who should not realise what I'm thinking. Partly due to the fact that somehow, even if I do try, I feel that I don't do the matter justice.

This is my struggle. And then I tell myself, fine, stop blogging. But still, at times, I find myself coming back to the blogger posting page. I find myself trying to compose, trying to put down into words what I'm thinking and feeling.

I end up finding it disjointed. I end up feeling that somehow, I am just unable to capture it. And then I force some random scribble and rant out, and hit "Publish Post".

So I thought, let's delete the blog. But no, I cannot bear to do it, somehow. It is like looking at something that has accompanied you for part of your journey, and feeling that little unwillingness in your heart to get rid of something that meant something to you. That was a little significant, somehow, though you can't explain it.

But at the same time, leaving this blog there, would see me often coming back to the create entry page.

So, this is the final decision. The compromise I need to come to, for now.

Maybe one day I will 'revive' this blog. Or maybe I would finally be able to cut the strings and bonds, and have the courage to delete it. But for now, this is it.

And if anyone ridicules me at still posting this one last final entry as I stopped showing my posts, they're free to.

But in truth, part of the reason is because I finally found something I can really truly write once again.

Though, in the end, perhaps I do have this little narcissist lurking in my heart. This little pride, a load of vanity. Which is detestable. And which is why, this first step had to be taken.

the end.-