Last night I discussed with my blogger friends the reasons for keeping a blog. I struggled to see it as anything more than a narcissistic tool of naval-gazing at worst, a means of procrastination at best. Who reads these things? What’s the point? Is there anyone out there? Is this a more glamourous, socially accepted way of talking to oneself; the first sign of madness?
Yet I woke up this morning with an uncontrollable urge to set myself up in the 21st century as an online persona (myself, unedited) and organise my musings and rants into nice, neat, categorised ‘posts’. I fear I may become addicted. I hope to entertain.
I often change my mind about things. This particular time reminds me of when I decided, in the middle of a vintage boutique shop in Sydney four years ago, that I absolutely needed a tattoo of the pisces sign on my left foot, immediately. I went and got one done – the old symbol which looks a bit like an italicised ‘H’ – within about an hour. I had thitherto detested all tattoos (and still largely do).
I am not a hypocrite; it’s a piscean trait to be ‘muteable’. This is why our fish swim in opposite directions. I always find my most unexpected, inexplicable decisions are the ones I regret the least.
So here I am, starting a blog. Talking to myself.