I love to write. There are so many things rattling around in my head at any given moment, and I love them. I want to put them into the world and see if they can become something; something from me, but separate from me, like a child. Only better than a child, because no poop or whining.
I get so hung up, though, on being profound.
On nights like tonight, when the air hangs in my house like shreds of damp washrags, when every song lyric was written for my life, when there’s just a twinge of melancholy at the edge of my brain, the entire world seems heavy. What could my little words mean?
It’s what I love about Facebook, I guess. I can write two sentences, and they can be witty or clever or just silly, and that’s enough. But that’s not writing. Writing has to mean something.
(Unless you write about sparkly vampires, or BDSM romances, and then your writing will be loved by gajillions of giggling teens and lonely housewives even if it doesn’t mean anything or, even worse, means wrong things.)
Maybe I just need to make a book of my Facebook statuses over the past five years. It will show my progression from not really understanding the point of Facebook:
to beginning to see its emotionally therapeutic potential:
to the traditional TMI:
And finally, my attempts at enlightenment:
There will be birthday posts:
and obituary posts:
and political posts:
You know, I think this is a great idea. Profound things are overrated. I’ve been cured of my need to post profundity! FAME, PLEASE!