i don’t know who i’m typing to. i have to type with the presumption that someone is reading. at this point in my life, if i’m putting stuff out there, i have to be straight up with myself about the possibility that it might actually be read.
this is not real writing — i have never attempted to share my Real Writing. i am a coward. the reason i am afraid of writing is because i think i might be good at it. i have had trustworthy independent sources verify my suspicions. the idea that i might actually be good at something terrifies me. less than the also very real fear that i might be completely shit at it.
i have stacks and stacks of notebooks and journals. most of them abandoned and left to rot, but not all of them. not all of them. this blog itself has been neglected and left to gather digital dust for years. years. Lily will remember. Lily will be reading.
it used to be called unreliable narrator. this blog. unreliable narrators are the protagonists in fiction i always identified with. they still are. i still don’t trust a word that comes out of my own mouth or a thought that comes into my own head. i still feel like a character, or an actor with no script. i have crafted so many personas over the years. i have worn personalities like coats. like costumes. beliefs, values, interests, hobbies, tastes, opinions. i cycle through them like accessories. i have embodied so many stereotypes trying to make sense of myself. i am 31 years old and i still don’t feel like a real person.
there have been consistencies, though — enduring passions. dogs. nature. art. coffee. music. books. certain humans.
Mere named me Rahera. i am crying into my coffee again, so i will not write about that now. it deserves Real Writing. she deserves real writing. she always encouraged me to write. she gave me a journal and told me to “fill it with my brilliance”, and i never fucking did.
i felt real with her. i was feeling real last year. before December 6. it wasn’t all good, but a lot of it was. i felt real with Nathan. frighteningly real. unprecedentedly. anyone who knew him will understand what i mean. they were both real people. they were real together. i felt real when i was with them.
this is not Real Writing. i am just typing. there’s a difference between Writing and typing.
i want to fill this blog up with something, even if it’s far from brilliant. i need to write for my sanity. apparently, there’s a pandemic out there. it’s close to chaos, but not quite. it’s exciting to think society might be on the brink of collapse, but i feel unenthused. underwhelmed. self-isolation sounds like the perfect excuse.
this will do for a blog post. it’s nothing. it’s filler. i’m just typing words now. you have wasted your time.