‘Dear Diary’, begin many a posts in my old journal with pink floral cover that I still stumble upon hiding behind the layers of ‘real books’ I have gathered in the years adding up to my age. I have not said a lot to the diary in the longest time, i.e. post the age we discovered blogging and an audience. And hence very little of what is written on those pages(which I am sure also had a scent in them originally) makes any sense. It makes up for plenty of emotion, but very little logic. The declarations made to diary of love/hate/revenge and whatever notions/projections I may have experienced in those years require no explanations. The diary is nothing but a collective of assertions supported by little evidence, never attempting to sound intelligent, and very rarely correcting grammatical mistakes in retrospect. Mostly because at the time I may not have even thought them as errors or simply because striking out inked words would make the page look unkempt. There was no thought about using fancier/rarer words. Hence flowed writing, never expecting an audience, never attempting to be something other than a pure vent of emotion. Yes, it makes me cringe going back to them, embarrassed of sneaking into my own world from a couple of years ago, but at least it is honest.
Blogging on the other hand, at least in my case is a parallel passive world where I am wary of saying anything too emotional, too revealing of actual situations in my life, and sometimes just fake. It is a vent, that is never really ever targeted at the source of disturbance that drives me to writing. It always manifests into a post about everything and nothing- about shoes, beverages, movies and sometimes about relationships. But very seldom about own feelings. It is read and edited a couple of times before it is reader-ready, making sure that the facade is intact, and mostly it works. After all this is what we are all good at mostly unwillingly to accept.
And there is of course nothing wrong with fake, because after all fiction dominates a large portion of the world of writing. But blogs don’t even qualify as fiction. To me, unless you are a reveal -all candid blogger (whose guts I respect with reservations), they are a dressed-up world of the real stuff crying out for an image, similar to social media updates. Only sometimes, in our darkest or happiest hours, do we really let go and show up for real.