Exhibitionist

For all my attempts at keeping this blog a quasi-secret (I don't publicize it), there's as part of me that wants to divulge the URL and garner everyone's sympathy. If I'll be honest with you (just because I'm honest with myself doesn't necessarily mean I'll be honest with my readers), the biggest temptation is this fantasy of winning my crush over by simply allowing her to read this journal. "Oh, how romantic!" or "I love your metaphor!" are statements that I imagine. Yet the fantasy and reality are seldom synchronized (remember the best-laid plans?) and what'll likely happen is something unforeseen. (If you're a pessimist, you'd imagine it'll scare her away.)

Here's another confession: I'm hungry for attention that I secretly wish she'll ask me why I'm depressed and it's the perfection excuse to reveal to her this blog.

I'm not proud of these emotions but they come naturally. You can call it the selfishness of being human. Admitting them to you already takes great effort on my part. Forget about reading between the lines (there'll always be space for that), let's call a spade a spade.

If there's any redeeming quality to me writing all of this, it's that it acts like a mirror. This is me, this is what I'm thinking and feeling. And at the back of my head, I'm deliberating "How can I use this material for my own stories?"

Secretly, I'm also thinking, don't these blog entries form a story of their own?