Please do not ask me who I wrote that about.
I did not write the essay so that you could connect the dots and draw conclusions. I did not write the essay so that you could conjure up assumptions about whose arms I’ve been in and whose fingers have grazed my soul. I did not write the essay so that you could fill in the gaps or furnish the blanks. I wrote the essay because I am not the only one with unrequited love stories and nights with Adele on repeat.
I do not want to tell you what I do in my free time.
Because then I’ll drop my voice and tell you that I like to blog. And then you’ll ask about that blog and I won’t want to elaborate. Not at first. I won’t want to tell you that I left my heart wide open on the Internet. I won’t want to tell you that I write a lot of things that would make you raise your brow and take a step back. Maybe two. I won’t want to tell you that if you really wanted to climb into the hammock of my mind, you could grab yourself a bottle of red and pour through post after post.
But I wish you didn’t think you really knew me. Because in both grand and molecular ways, you do not.
I wish you didn’t take the liberty to say things like “That’s your signature look” or ask me how I paid for my Macbook. And I wish you didn’t start sentences with, “Well, I read on your blog…” I wish you didn’t slip off your shoes in my house and get all comfortable. I wish you didn’t mount me up on some imaginary pedestal, only to unsubscribe from my newsletter when you got tired of hearing my thoughts. I wish you would use my words as a mirror to your own life instead of a magnifying glass on mine.
I hope you did not fall in love with me from something you read.
Because I am flesh and I am skin. I am eyes that light up and a smile that crams my whole face. I am a voice that never gets below a certain decibel and a laugh that invades everyone’s space. I am sweaty palms and fingernails that never have polish. I am a person. A human. A beating heart. And you need that person, that human and that beating heart if you stand any chance at falling in love. The words help, but they are only a fraction of my whole.
But, maybe I should not ask. And maybe I should not wish. And maybe I should not hope. Because somewhere along the line, in a world of infopreneurs and lifestyle bloggers, I planted my flag in the world of personal blogging. I strapped up my boots and decided to climb to the mountaintop. I turned away from going viral or writing listicles. I dedicated myself to telling stories and stripping my soul bare. See, the world is crammed with documentaries. Photos and quotes and vestiges of damn good days. But, it’s all autobiographical. It’s not personal. It tells the story of someone’s existence, but it never unearths the emotions.
Personal blogging is a pilgrimage toward unearthing the emotions of any and every experience. Personal blogging is a pilgrimage toward writing the words that the world doesn’t even know it needs to hear.
So, maybe I should not ask. And maybe I should not wish. And maybe I should not hope.
Because when I started the pilgrimage, I opened myself up to the peril. The assumptions. The overtly and unapologetically personal questions. The conclusions. The hunger to fill in the blanks. The ephemeral love and loyalty. The appetite to learn and hear more. But far away, on the opposite end of that spectrum, there is safety. There is love. There is a tribe and there is a testimony. There are open minds and people who don’t need to read in between the lines. So I will relace my boots and keep marching on.