that the reason why I don’t blog more often is because when I go back and read what I’ve written a few days, weeks, months afterward, it somehow doesn’t feel real or honest. It’s as if my words don’t hold up to my nebulous standard of Me.  My fickle mind feels completely disconnected from the words I’ve written, doubtful of their veracity, and the editor in me constantly looks for ways to re-structure and thesauricize (yeah, I made up a word, but so did Shakespeare, and our great leader Palin {what if I were being serious?} Also, what are these brackets for {} ? I only know them from math class and even then I couldn’t tell you what they were used for in that context)…

Nevermind, I just looked it up.

Anyway, I used to be crippled by the mere act of writing on the internet, aware of the permanence of it all, or maybe of exposing too much or to the wrong people. It’s the same force that compels us to censor and un-tag on Facebook ®. I am not pictures of puppies, or a still from Lost in Translation, or a really awesome weekend, just like I am not my favorite films or quotes or relationship status or my area of study.

I now know better: that whatever inconsequential words I pour into this tumblr are not life-defining or a true revelation of myself in any sense of the word, however I choose to conceptualize myself in my head. Words are never enough. It’s comparable to the way in which people think about photographs in that they’re supposed to be these records of “objective reality” or LIFE AS IT IS when really, it’s impossible to capture “real life” in all of its dynamic glory and spatial/temporal dimensions in a single static frame.

And so I post here for the first time in a few weeks (and with substantially more than the usual pictures or IM exchanges that I upload) with the understanding that these posts are not cementing my being, but each one is a time capsule offering a tiny frame of what this world is and what I have to offer it.