I don’t know what this is. Like a journal maybe? Of an annoying 16 year old emo chic?

I hate it when this happens.

When imaginary expectations and irrational guilt team up and hold me down.  Guilt sits on my chest and the expectations taunt me, begging to know why I’m not doing more.

I want to write here about the fear I talked about in therapy yesterday, but I can’t silence the voice that says that post has already been written.  Dozens and dozens of times, even.

I want to write here about something that will incite a reaction.  Something tweet worthy and link worthy and comment inspiring.  But I have nothing notable to say and trying to wrench it from thin air just because is exhausting and slimy.

It’s a strange thing, this wanting to be heard but not knowing what you want to say.  Wanting to be seen, but not wanting to clean up and make yourself presentable.

I just want to say I’m here and have someone say I’m relevant.  I need to know I’m not easily forgotten.  That just being matters.  That my existence, for a few days, is enough.  I need a break from the churning of the finished product, from the goals and stretching and not falling down.

I just need to sit a while.  And we won’t laugh or fix or incite.  We won’t be quotable or informative or marketable.  We will influence no one and somehow still not disappear.

Of course, that isn’t the way of the Internet.  The Internet loves you when you dance and forgets you when you rest because there is always another show to see.  That is just the way of entertaining things.  The Internet loves you in the same way that slot machines love you; you are a dazzling lover as long as you pull the lever, but you can be replaced by the next sucker with a quarter in the time it takes you to hunt down a cocktail waitress.

But that’s OK.  The Internet will be there, ready to be entertained, when we are done sitting for a while.

So who will sit with me when the Internet has turned its attention to the next shining thing?

It’s you I want to rest with.  It’s you who reminds me that I am real and not a pixelated version of myself.  You who sit beside me when I am not dancing, who will remember me long after I am gone.  It is you who helps me distinguish between a means and an end.

And you are the end.  You, those who sit with me, when I’m not entertaining.

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