Every transmission— tweet, status update, text message, conversation— is a bit of information that you give up to someone else.
And, boy, do I know how to disseminate.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve come to realize that each time I share something, it has the potential to impact another person positively or negatively. Being that I’m generally peaceful and seek no malice, my intention is that what I exude is thought-provoking rather than labeling it “good” or “bad.” Of course, as a manipulator of words, I always write to evoke some emotion. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be noteworthy.
I wear my heart on my sleeve— it’s no secret. It even has its own billboard with lighted arrows and marquee. This is part of my charm and ability to connect with almost anyone. But I’m beginning to process the facts that:
- Not everyone cares.
- I deserve to retain some secrets.
Let me note the obvious— I write a blog. How am I to comment on keeping things private while still conveying a particular message? Believe me, there are many things I do not mention on my blog that shape and influence the writings.
Since I have been to hell on my own accordance these last few months, I challenge myself during winter break to evaluate what to divulge and what to hold sacred. Solitude has always been my best friend, refreshing, rejuvenating, and intrinsic— and I have not graced my presence to him in quite some time. Free of academic responsibilities and romantic endeavors, this time is necessary and vital to coming back to reality. Get out of my way; I’m on a healing journey. (See previous post)
The information that you give to someone depends on the relationship. I have few best friends, many dear friends, and esteemed persons in my life whom I update regularly— but not only is this exhausting, it is self-deprecating. How am I supposed to burgeon as an individual if I spend the majority of the time reporting on meaningless plot twists that I call my life? It’s like a bad English paper— all story review and no analysis. And this analysis is self-reflection. Out of respect for myself and for the sake of annoyance of the other party, I must decide, quite bluntly, who is worth it and who is not.
I can’t necessarily ghost my heart to the world, for that would cause upheaval and distress of my psyche and fiber of my being. I am, however, discovering ways to shut my mouth and turn it inward— I can’t say how many tweets and texts I’ve drafted and deleted. I feel my conscience tap me on the shoulder and say, “Listen you brazen fool, do you really want to say that?” I gulp, shake my head, and play coy.
In the wise words of children, “It’s for me to know and you to never find out. Nanny nanny boo boo.”
The Flight of Your Life 