The Blog Complex

When a girl blogger writes, she is, essentially, naked.

The more that she writes, the more naked she becomes; the more honesty, the more truth; and less layer of hypocrisy, and less layer of denial. The burden of a secret, a suppressed thought, if not vented, is a dormant Vesuvius to a girl blogger. Her diary is her release, her blogspot is her portal. When a girl blogger writes about her day, she is at her most vulnerable. Her feelings exposed, her life unveiled, her secrets uncovered. Each word that she types is a letter of her deepest confession, and each new paragraph is a new beginning to her day, with equal anticipation, equal positivity.

When a girl blogger writes about her life, she is opening up herself to a new world where she knows no one; so that she could be touched, be appreciated, be loved; indiscriminately, and not for her looks, and not for her charm -- and to a girl, and not just a blogger girl, love is the one thing that she could never feel she had enough of. When a girl blogger writes, she is, literally, closing her eyes, and, with trust, letting herself fall into your arms, your warmth, your acceptance.

A girl blogger at the keyboard is a fragile being, a delicate soul; she has so much amount of love to give, to herself, to those near her, to those who care enough to say hi, and in return, all that she wants back is a caring listener, a loyal friend, a trustworthy confidante. When a girl blogger writes about her joy, all that she wants is for you to laugh along with her, and not at her; and when a girl blogger writes about her sadness, all that she wants is for you to cry along with her, and not at her -- thus, please, be gentle, and be kind, and comfort her with your empathy, and not your sympathy. The glimpse of a girl blogger's life, the sight of her nakedness, her bare emotions, is the most beautiful thing, the most profound form of sincerity; it is bliss in relative ways.

When a guy blogger writes, he is, however, an egocentric pervert.

*****

"Kau bual apa dengan dia?"
"Takde apa, saja bertegur."
"Kau tahu tak dia tu ada blogspot?"
"Tahu, tapi aku jarang baca."
"Kau tak takut ke?"
"Takut apa?"
"Kalau dia tulis apa-apa pasal kau, dia guna nama kau..."
"Dia selalu buat macam tu ke?"
"Blogspot tu kan macam diari dia..."

*****

Is this obsession, or is this appreciation?

Each morning, and with the company of a cup of coffee, never had I missed a single page of update from this girl's journal. Had she created a fan club, I, alone, would be its member; for every minute details that she had ever lavished her page upon in the past, I would have framed it with an array of blinking neon lights, and up on my bare bedroom wall, and not a day goes by that I would not see to it that the detail is much appreciated, much loved, and much taken care of.

All she wants is your undivided attention.

The day that she got her first job at the sports facility; I was there, sharing her happiness, and her story about the new working place, as she described it as so very posh, and her new working friends, as she described them as so very bizarre, and how good she felt to be financially secure for the first time, and not just be totally dependent on her father's generosity and her meager scholarship. The day that she got her first paycheck, and the many words she wrote that failed miserably to contain the exploding emotions that she wanted them to describe for her, and the beautiful happy people that she met at the bank where she deposited the cheque, her warm smile, her red ears, her pounding heart; I was there.

How could you not feel happy for her?

And the day that she felt ever so lonesome that no one noticed her anymore as she walked into a lecture room, like the popular version of her in the past days of high school; and the day that she finally knew why the first love of her life left her for another girl, the bastard that once swore that all that he needed in his life stood so lovingly in front of him, and that he could not see the day that he would set his eyes on another girl, that selfish jerk; I was there, by her side, all throughout the pain that she felt.

How could you not feel her sadness?

Of all the things that I long for in this world, if ever that chance is made available, oh God; to make her see that life is more than just what we are told to do, expected to achieve, and required to produce; to make her happy once more each day at the sight of the smallest things, an albino squirrel, the changing seasons, a clear blue sky; I wish I could do more than just be the few who visits her journal religiously each morning, with a cup of coffee at hand, and a piece of my attention that she craves.

Be a part of her life, and read about yourself in her journal?

*****

"Sit down."
"Thanks."
"Coffee?"
"No, I'm good."
"So... where should we start?"
"Anywhere is fine."
"Okay, so, how long have you been doing this?"
"Blogging?"
"Yeah."
"A year and a half now."
"Which translates to 'quite long', yes?"
"I know a few sites older than mine."
"So, anyway, you are here to record a statement?"
"Yes."
"Let me set this thing... okay, go on."
"This thing's on?"
"Yeah, go on."
"Okay... I think it's unfair that people come to read a blogspot without being a part of it."
"Could you elaborate further?"
"Well, a blogspot is supposedly a diary..."
"Yeah, that's generally true."
"...and an online one, which means that it is open to the public."
"No argument there."
"And a diary, it's filled with juicy secrets, yeah?"
"Yeap."
"So, if people come to a blogspot to read secrets, then, it'd be just as fair for the author to use the details of those who came to the blogspot page for his or her own use."
"How?"
"How use the details, you mean?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, for starters, use their names, their identities..."
"Hold on, hold on."
"What's wrong?"
"Shed me some light here: how did you come to this statement, this conclusion?"
"Ah! The story behind this, you mean."
"Yes."
"Well, from my observation, bloggers, they don't have many close friends."
"Really?"
"The ones that I read about, that I visit regularly, yes."
"So, from this..."
'"From this, it's clear that, those around these bloggers, they fear being part of the blogspot."
"How do you be a part of a blogspot?"
"Simple; you are okay if the author ever wants to talk about you in his or her page."
"You mean, as in, object of discussion..."
"Yeah, discussion, public light, ridicule, humor..."
"Ah! You see! Ridicule! No one wants to be ridiculed."
"That's true, very true, but..."
"I don't believe that there is a 'but' to that..."
"No, listen. It's hard enough for the blogger to be the object of gossip by those around him or her, for all the things he or she had written frankly in the blogspot page; the ideas, the opinions, the personal stuff. So, being okay with a bit of ridicule is a small give-and-take compared to that."
"What? How is that even logical?"
"What do you mean?"
"How is letting myself be ridiculed in public a mere small price to whatever the blogger confesses..."
"Ah, come on! Like you never gossip about a blogger..."
"Well, that's the price you bloggers pay for wanting attention..."
"What the hell does that supposed to mean?"
"Whoa, whoa, take it easy there, I'm just saying..."
"I don't think you non-bloggers understand a thing what we are going through here..."
"I have to admit -- I don't understand the motivation behind blogging, having an online diary...."
"No wonder."
"...but, hey listen, but, I am willing to learn."
"The essence of blogging is this, remember these words, pal: freedom of self-expression."
"I have nothing against that, but why in diary form? Why in public?"
"Because a diary is a sincere piece of paper, and from the public comes the most misunderstandings."
"Going back to your previous argument..."
"Which one?"
"...about people fearing to be part of the blogspot..."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"I think it's flawed."
"In what way?"
"Well, to begin with, bloggers would've gone to their blogspots if they had friends in the first place."
"So you're saying that..."
"Only lonely and friendless people have blogspots."
"Ha!"
"So, to compensate for that frustration, they blame it on those around them, and those who visit their blogspots, accusing them of distancing themselves from the bloggers, and accusing them for not wanting to take part, and being angry for something that they did to themselves the bloggers."
"Ha! Like I said before, you non-bloggers have no idea what we..."
"Oh, cut that out! You bloggers, always wallowing in your own pathetic self-pity..."
"No, I am not! How dare you!"
"You bloggers, it's always about you, you, you..."
"I demand that you take that back!"
"... like you are some big shot, some goddamn star."
"Fuck you, you non-bloggers! If it weren't for us, you'd have no where to surf the net for!"
"Fuck you, like I give a damn about your life!"

*****

Friedrich Nietzsche, a 19th century German author who wrote numerous books that challenged the traditional conformist structure of morality, society and religion, once said that, "... [A] good author possesses not only his intellect, but also that of his friends." Central to the body of his views are the emphasis on individual creativity, honest curiosity and non-ideal realities of the world that we live in. Nietzsche wrote his strong quasi-blasphemous views in his books in an aphoristic manner that no one during his time understood; so very passionately personal, and yet so very glaringly distant to whom he was. At the age of 55, at the peak of his prolific writing life, he went insane and was committed by her sister to an asylum before dying from a combination of pneumonia, stroke and syphilis a year later.

To me personally, Nietzsche is the first true blogger in history.

*****

Coming home weary from school, a blogspot author was surprised to be greeted at his mailbox by a piece of postal packaging the size of a seasonal greeting card earmarked with airmail stamp postage from Malaysia. He squeezed the package a few times in many places just to make sure that that indeed was an actual package for him, and not for any of his more popular roommates. As soon as his doubt had eroded enough of him to convince himself that all is well for him to be happy to receive such a pleasant surprise gift from the postal service, he proceeded to his apartment.

Upon arriving at his desk in his room, immediately, he tore open the package with such vigor that the package made a sound loud enough to make him stop and laugh at himself for being ever so childish. He laughed at himself further, knowing that his actions just now, his lust for the contents inside, not a single thing lacking to the behavior of that of an immature boy receiving his birthday gift, like a brat to a free candy, like a baby to a mother's nipple. A few more rounds of guffaw, and then, he was once again at the package's yellow fancy wrappings, tearing it apart piece by piece, from one edge to the other.

Inside the package, he found himself a Raya card and a piece of paper. The card had a picture of a famous mosque on its front page and was generally in a slightly pale yellow hue. The piece of paper, however, was clean and white in color, and it had only a few lines written with a blue pen's ink on it; it was a short supplementary note, the kind that celebrity stalkers give to their victims. Firstly, he read the card, and was happy to know that someone out there cared enough for him to send him a greeting card, even if he himself did not care enough for others near him to send them a similar greeting card for the festive season. Then, he moved on to the piece of paper that came together with the Raya card. He read the few blue lines that were written on it, and after a few quick glances, he gave himself a smile and grabbed himself a black fountain pen. Onto the same paper, and underneath the blue lines, he wrote:

"Thank you for the card, it was nice.
I know you've supported me all this years;
But -- I can't lie, even to my biggest fan,
For I am one that is not easily amused."

He then folded up the paper into two, and into four, and finally into eight, and later, he threw it away.