I can't believe how tired I am.
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Wednesday the 21st of March 2018 @ 06:45am
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Filed Under: Journal - General

Indeed, dangerous things. It's amazing how much a person can say to others, often strangers, about how they feel when it's via a black and white proxy called livejournal. But then the subject of much of those things builds up around a very unreal nexus, livejournal, again. It makes me wonder how much of it real and how much of it is triple steeped in obscure, cryptographic, protectionist language. It really is odd to see so much written privately in public in private language. Perhaps that's the origin of the dot-dot-dot complex. The real meaning of a sentence left as an exercise for the reader. Substitute yourself and a critical, missing piece of information for these dots, and if you know me well enough and care about me deeply enough you'll get the message. The rest of you all will simply crook your heads to the side and think I'm intense and interesting in some kind of very creative way.

I wonder how many professions of lust, condemnations of hate, flurries of anger, desperate cries for help or epics of love lost go told, read and completely unheard every day. Poorly described or overly obfuscated posts intended to mark what were to become the final words of someone's life, only to have the attempt aborted and the post deleted. How many dark secrets have people entrusted to livejournal's privacy policy? How many lives would be destroyed if those posts were to emerge one day? A depressing number I would suspect. Yet people do it every day, every single day.

A strong urge it must be, the urge to be heard. Even if the message can't be clear there must be something reassuring in a post which dumps the unconnected, pick-up stick emotions wrapped up in a person's soul. In fact those obfuscated soliloquies carry a double meaning, most of the time. Not only do they serve to let a person empty themselves into a little text box, but the provide a magical and hopeful hook dangling in the water for the unstated target of the post to strike on. Every little icon laden hook a cast into the deeps of understanding, dragging behind it a shiny little hope flittering about in the water with the sun glinting off of it, just begging to be bit. Careening, zigging and reeling all the way back, or rather off of friends pages, much to the unknowing shrug of the target.

I also wonder how many people have found love, understanding or completion in these little blurbs of the soul. I think it's an interesting question, and one I'll leave entirely as an exercise for the reader.


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