Friends tell me why don't I blog that much, especially when they listen to some of my stories or things I might call adventures. I don't really know why sometimes I feel like I'm just a bubble. A bubble with a very long lifetime, waiting for some random moment to burst to get out all the memories, to talk. That near-bursting moment comes a lot, but, veeery veeery rarely that it bursts. When it does, either I'm with the wrong person or with just no person at all.
I don't understand why do I wait for the luxury of finding the right person to talk to when this moment comes, when my friend tells me, or reminds me, of my blog, I have many thoughts or memories living inside my head, as if they are some kind of movies in front of my eyes, tons of stories to say, but instead I choose to have them playing like an old silent movie in a locked room. Probably that's the reason why I choose to call my first blog, My Own Prison, and I indeed I blog from a, voluntary, locked room.
I made this blog, imported most of the text I wrote since 2006, so I can blog more. But I don't know if I'm a person who loses his interest too easily even after spending much time on something. For instance, I began learning Spanish after visiting Chile and Spain, got some podcasts, learned some basics, but still. Till now I don't have enough willpower to continue learning. I want to go to the gym, specially with working online I began facing the consequences of sitting all day long, transferring from a human body to a brain with typing fingers.
Speaking of typing, I now remember how I used to write poetry, in English, some ten years ago. It was the same time I decided to turn my life into a digital phase. Stop writing on paper, getting rid of every paper I kept, partially for fearing someone might look at it and make fun of me. That way of digitizing my life enabled me to show what I wanted to only those I wanted, something that you call today privacy. But a downside, the forum that I used to contribute to, the place where I kept the only copy of my poetry, was deleted after an intentional/by mistake deletion of the whole website, thanks to the webmaster. Man, they are so careless they even lost their domain(s). How pathetic can life be?
Speaking of privacy, many people, or friends, complain that I don't talk a lot. The first paragraph above might explain, but another reason might be the following. In my family circle, whenever I talk, whenever I tell my stories, after the first minute the immediate reaction is tons of advice to take care of this, take care of that, without any single regard of my attempt to satisfy my need to tell my stories. This sense of over protection is something I increasingly despised by day. In the same time you can't really complain to the family that they are over protective, especially when you meet people in your life who envy you for having a family in the first place, ending up doing much listening, so little talking and a full-time job of observing and thinking. Probably that's not very bad either, listening is not a so popular virtue.
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