I started blogging because I knew nobody was reading it and I could write anything I wanted because I have healthy conscience and some decency. If someone read it and liked it, that would be a bonus; am more than super happy to share opinions with perfect strangers, or people who really know me.
When I stared to go all freaky and paranoid in this place, hiding traces of myself and hid behind it all by not signing in for ages, I just knew it was my time to bugger off. Who needs a double life that tortures oneself and be a reminder of the real life that you cannot bare?
I have been hovering over the idea of writing the empty, useless stuff, and keeping it all vague and non-me. I did that especially when I felt unsafe in here. I still wrote what I really wanted to write time to time, but the frequency became too sporadic. I couldn't stay because I was scared shit, but I didn't want to leave because I resented the fact I was herded off by some fuckers who worth nothing on the face of the earth. This trial of me trying to act OK by doing unimportant things like social-networking was not working and it began showing.
I still don't know who read my entries. I do feel that some of the entries are waste of the time and space, just like my memory. I hate the existence of my memory, it hunts me and makes me this ridiculous person who can never be honest.
Still dwelling on the idea of retirement. This is pegging me down to a point of life I rather pretend didn't happen. My obsessive personality has pinned me to a big wall smeared with stains of sweat and tears and all kind of human dirt. Fuck, enough is enough. Let me get out of it.
