plain fckn crazy (real)

It was a soft kind of Wednesday afternoon. Sunny, warm… soft.

“The thing is,” I said to my wonderful soul-friend – a blogger/writer friend I really respect who I befriended during our peak period of drama-blogging about three years ago; she’s older not just in age but also experiences and wisdom, “My life is full. I have a large family that keeps me busy with responsibilities and commitments. I have a small circle of friends, but they are loving and we are tight-knit. I write things, emotional sentiments, on the internet in my blog, yes, but I do talk and contextualize them to select individuals in-person. I live, exist, and partake in this physical world completely, totally. ”

A thoughtful pause.Maybe it is simply this: I don’t have a dependency on the internet, the virtual world, in the way some people do. It’s nice to switch and go on this other sphere and have people with common interests to talk to, over things that I care about that not everyone in my immediate circle does. Sometimes we just want some timeout anyway, isn’t it? Escapism. But maybe the difference for me is that this realm is a complement to an already full life that I have.”

“But maybe it’s my mistake, for writing personal thoughts on a public space.”

I let out a small laugh, trying to downplay my next thought. My pal, she’s refreshingly introspective without coming off as an introvert. “I’m obsessive about myself. I’m obsessive about a lot of things, period, but especially my self-definition. I know this sounds crazy  – this is crazy – but whenever someone tells me they know me well, my mind’s gears get to work verifying if this person has earned him or herself that statement, to say they know me. I know, it’s crazy. I’m sorry. It’s a reflex.”

“Now I feel questions coming.”

“I think there are those… who think they know me because they read me. I don’t know how I feel about that. I know they mean well, they come from a good place. They care. They want to care. They’ve been reading me in blogphilic for so long; now they want details. They think they’ve earned themselves that much. Now they question, why is everything so deliberately vague? It’s hard to read. It’s hard to be there for someone when you don’t know the how, on what, and why. I understand.”

“But I don’t want questions. Because I have no answers to give. I won’t.”

“Maybe it is just that… the dependency some people have towards the internet genuinely scares me. Some have, I perceive, more of a life in reel than in real. I understand it works that way for some people because of their limitations – physical, social… whatever are their reasons. But I don’t have that and I don’t know if I relate and know how to deal with those who do, when it comes down to it. I’m not part of the generation that grew up with Facebook – I grew up then learned of Facebook. Which means, while I recognize and agree that the internet is a great invention – I remember a life, what’s it like, before it.”

“Although the internet is real – its virtual realm, fundamentally, isn’t. There are no stakes and I can’t handle that. I don’t know what to hold on to. I don’t know how to hold on, what to lean on. Maybe other people don’t mind these, but I mind them. I mind them a lot. Because at the end of the day, it is conversations like today that I recall and ruminate over; the one where we sit down over coffee face-to-face, where you hear me out in-person like this. This is the kind of memories that sustain me.”

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