Representation in Blogging

The frivolity and shiny showiness of a life you’d just love and are envious of. Look at me look at me look at me. Live vicariously through me, why don’t you. Is that not why you read? And is that not why I write? And of course, the pictures, for visual proof and evidence that this is authentic, this hedonistic, worldly, traveller with chronic wanderlust is real. Look at me with my friends, friends of the same calibre, and perhaps you reading it means that I too may one day shed the ambient light of the camera on you? Let’s throw in some choice music for a multi-faceted me, all for sensory details and joys that I appreciate better than you and you. For a confirmation of my awesome adventures and a legitimisation of the path I have taken. This way, and not your way, and look at how I turned out! Wouldn’t you love to be me? Also, don’t you love me?

Either that or I am the brooding, tortured soul, replete with typical posturing and affectations. The anti-establishment, fuck-everything, I’m-so-mysterious-aren’t-I, pensive beatnik young punk bad ass. The Holden Caulfield of today maybe, only more deviant, more obvious, what with the trainspotting shit. I might even put on a beret just to dress the revolutionary part. Play the guitar, play my angst, if I could. Or present myself as nothing short of deep. Try and read me behind all those fancy words then, just so you discover that I am actually more morose than I appear to be, and oh, what a surprise, a thinker, if you will. Is that not why I present myself in ever-revealing episodic peeks into my, dare I say it, character? I say I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think, though I’d gladly and perhaps sadistically kill millions for it.

Or I could be the literary genius wannabe. The failed writer who finally dares bare her soul in order for some sort of verification that the written word so carefully manipulated and thought through exists. That some sort of post-mortem and rudimentary dissection by unskilled surgeons will mean that it once lived and breathed. Read, please read, and leave a comment, if you will. Tell me I’m good. Better yet, leave me a poem in response, so that I too can engage in some literary circle of you and me. The academic arty-farty, shall I say, connoisseurs of the fine and fabulous. Strip me of my pretensions and see that it is constructed entirely out of rickety scaffolds of towering vocabulary and convoluted, labyrinthine semantics.

I am the epitome of the everyman, so I say, though I like to think of myself as social critic of our times, and what troubled times it is. What era does not need its soothsayer cum bell-toller, the paperboy of notorious opinions and loud voice laden with self-importance? Read a piece of my grey matter, let me share my thoughts, I want to invade your consciousness and brand my own stamp, sear my ideas into your brain. I just want to screw with your mind – mind-fuck, is it? Let me whine complain berate rebut criticise and of course analyse everything down to the minute details and link it to the macrocosmic structure of the world as I, and now, as you, know it. Did I not shatter you, transform you in some way?

Representations. I am disgusted and ashamed, yet I revel in the stinking humanity of it all.