How much of myself do I want to exist online? How much of myself do I want to exist outside of myself at all? There’s this book I read a few years ago with the title “You Exist Too Much”. Sometimes, in moments of heightened agitation, that title echoes in my mind.
You exist too much, you exist too much, you exist too much.
I’ve been on social media since my formative, formative years. About the age of nine. I always loved the false sense of anonymity. However, I think it broke down a lot of barriers in terms of what to share. I can see that happening to other people now as well, as they exploit very personal, private moments for Tiktok views. The line between personal and private has blurred now that we’ve brought the internet into our homes, but I digress, just a little.
There is irony in contemplating how much I want to share, to “exist” outside of myself, through a blog post. You may have noticed I haven’t been posting that much; this is why. I keep thinking, “who cares? who cares?” This isn’t in regards to my writing as a whole, but rather the simple topics I would post on my blog. I never think about this in regards to other people’s blogs, curiosity is a lovely thing. This level of criticism is reserved for myself.
How much of myself should I be sharing? Should I wrap it up in fiction instead of half-truths, winding stories and explanations? Existing online, as always, exhausts me. I’m wearing knock off Bala bracelets (weighted bracelets for exercise) while I type this, a side effect of being online (influenced). But I wouldn’t say stepping away from the internet is the right solution for me. First of all, I’m neurotic in my personal life as well. But second of all, the internet is a way to break out of the small niche of your life and swim in bigger waters. You’re constantly shaped from your environment; it’s how you discover interests and enrich yourself. I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t had the internet as a facet of my environment growing up. Tumblr, I’m sure, changed the course of my life (derogatory). The problem with the internet, especially now, is it’s always jamming something down your throat. Everything is a hyper specific “aesthetic”, everything is linked in bio. Originality is being boxed up and shipped out.
I feel like that a lot with what I post; predominantly books and going out (god forbid a girl have hobbies.) Really, the only things I can be compelled to post are things that I really like, that fit into my (I’m sorry) “aesthetic ideal” of the moment, which comes quite naturally and with no effort at all. If I try to post something outside of this, I feel a grating sensation, like sandpaper on skin. But am I doing too much? (you exist too much, you exist too much) I always picture people on the other end being like we get it, you read. I’m sorry that what stirs me into posting is a precarious stack of books on my desk that I was inspired to take a picture of. I’m sorry that to live means to leave footprints, fingerprints behind.
Or maybe I’m not sorry.
Maybe that’s the point of all of this, to not be sorry.
"I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means." - Joan Didion