My writer’s flow has surely gone a tad squeaky from disuse. Nothing a little daily grease can’t remedy.
It wasn’t much more than 10 years ago that i opened my first online journal to an audience of one, i.e. my friend who’d revealed the phenomenon’s appeal. It was so much richer to read her entire accounts of living than to loiter in a chat room all night. My life of relative solitude then was more conducive of typing to myself. I love a muse or an audience, but writing is an oddly solipsistic conversation.
After years now of over-self-underexposure to mostly non-strangers on Facebook, i’m missing writing more than three sentences at a time and in the liberty of anonymity. Sweet anonymity, who asks no accounting in the rest of my world. Who creates no squeal of amplification feedback between between what i live and what i write.