I’m glad that I’m now back to my normal posting pace after having been absent for two weeks. Unable to write anything substantial for more than 10 days meant dragging myself back to writing, which is even more difficult than starting from scratch. Of course, my blog suffered from dwindling readership which is less of a concern. Although the beautiful stat page of wordpress can be a good enough reason to write, the number of clicks I get and the corresponding rise and fall of the points on the graph are not really my objects, they did help a lot in telling me that I have, at least, readers. Though I know that less than ten per cent of the actual clicks I get in a day are from people who really read my posts.
But what I had to contend more with for the past weeks of not writing were those non-lucid moments that did not help in unclogging my mind of unexpressed thoughts. Being deprived of catharsis, I felt less intelligent more than insane. But insane still.
A friend of mine, after reading my article that got published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer’s Younglood told me that we are living in a confessional age. I retorted that it’s more like an age of shameless self-promotion.
However we call it, we admit that we enjoy reading about other people’s lives, and people love to let other people know what’s happening inside their rooms, their minds. Controversies are not anymore the monopoly of celebrities. Anyone can tell the world the scandal he is involved in and become a celebrity in no time. We detest Kris Aquino for her endless talks about her private life, but we enjoy the thought of being in her position. We abhor Ricky Martin for his lack of a sense of propriety by telling the universe of his sexual preference, but we toy with the thought of one day dropping a bombshell about ourselves we hope will send tremor, albeit hardly-felt ones, but tremors nonetheless.