I’m a Loner, Amani, a Rebel…
(Gist)

“How far will writing take you?”
“It will take me nowhere, my love.”

During its inception, Chronic Mass started out as a fluke, an unintended anomaly in the weblog revolution. Unlike many of the others, it had its beginning not from the riding of the tail of the online diarist fad, but rather as a product of a naturally evolving innate necessity. The author wanted the page to be an outlet for his suppressed non-conformist views, a stepping stone to the creative expression of oneself as a person, and more importantly, as a writer. As the number of material made done in spare time grew larger, he was in a desperate state of reaching out far and wide for a stable of faceless audience who know no prior details to his life, his personality, to become impartial witnesses to the creation of a new genre in the weblog community: the realist auteur’s journal.

“Why real names, why your friends?”
“I don’t write fairy tales, my love.”

During its inception, Chronic Mass started out as a diary of a madman trapped in a world that he loathed, that he did not want to understand, but was willing to lend an empathetic ear to. He wrote about everything that he saw around him, and gave no hints of backing down from what he had written down. The nature of the materials was initially that of an apathetic bystander, the observationist, a crude idealist lost in his own poetic words. Only those who cared enough understood what he was saying, for he wrote in style that was very personal, and yet so very distant from the reality that others near him saw of him. The page provided a glimpse of what he could have been, instead of what he was, written like an intimate confessional diary of a delusional frustrated poet. In that concept alone, he was a rebel.

“Are they fictions, or the truth?”
“Fictions are best when they are true, my love.”

During its inception, Chronic Mass started out as a vast playground for experimental writing, both in the fields of style and format, and he was known to be a slave to the details, and he wrote each journal entry like it were to be carved onto his deathbed, his tombstone. Not a minute went by each day that he did not worry about what to write, what to touch, what to say. He constantly burdened himself with the general appearance of his work, the initial impression of his entry, the unassuming lives that he will touch. And as his audience grew larger in number, the pressure to leave a distinguished mark in their minds became more and more unbearable for one person to handle, and with each passing update, the hurdle was raised an inch higher than the previous. Throughout this journey, more than twice had he threatened to quit.

“Why writing?”
“This is a path to immortality, my love, to greatness.”

During its inception, Chronic Mass started out as a voice of a bored generation. The rat race pursuit of a dead-end career meant nothing to him, as he struggled to cope with the reality that the reason he was here in the first place was to serve the purpose of a corporate entity. He felt that he was merely a pawn, a digit from a statistic; treated not as an individual, but as an investment. Writing had always been his passion, from as early as his high school days, even before he started publishing his material on the internet. The weblog revolution provided him the means, and he took it to the uncharted sea of choices that if ever the corporate/academic world that he lived in were to crumble, then, the journal would be his savior, his redeemer, his sole reason to continue on. In essence, he had lost the lust for the life that others see fit for him. The self-loathing, the frustration, all were fuels to his writings.

“Do you not love life?”
“You ask that not because you are used to life, but you are used to loving.”

During its inception, Chronic Mass started out as a portal to the unexplored depth. To put the author and the individual side by side and then compare the two would be a stupendous act of idiocy, immediately futile; they are two sides of the same coin, with one being less favored, less lucky than the other. And to put the author and the work side by side and then compare the two would be more, if not equally, preposterous than the act above; the author is the medium that gave birth to the product, and the product alone is a living thing, having its own agenda, its own message. Some were mildly surprised, some were taken aback at the content that came out of the young introverted man that they thought they knew. Such depth, such disgust, his unbounded bluntness, his unyielding stance, and the intellect, and the smut, all that came out like a tidal wave of vomit, an anal outburst of diarrhea.

“Do you not fear retribution, repercussion?”
“And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.”

During its inception, Chronic Mass started out as an innocent hobby, a personal gem, and now, after years of incest feeding on its own offspring, like a father to sisters of thought, the journal has spawned its own life force, and has in the end consumed the author with its own version of addiction, like the drug to the sick. It began with the personal life story of a man wanting more from life, and his humdrum daily tribulations; then moving onto the bigger picture, those around him, the people he saw and their humanly behavior; then onwards to the laws that govern society, love, hate, the opposite sex, friendship; then shifting towards the metaphysical, the realm beyond the understanding of the oblivious many, as if he was on a soul-searching expedition, roaming aimlessly for clues in the wilderness that will point him to the direction of who he is ultimately. He used to be funny, sarcastic even, at times flamboyant, but all that now is lost forever to maturity, to self-discovery. He knows now that nothing is worth to be laughed at, other than laughter itself.

“When will this all end?”
“What does not destroy me, my love, makes me stronger.”