This marks my first ever post as a blogger. I am petrified and tremulous. I tap on my keyboard with apprehension. My concern about blogging is based on three sad facts:
1. I constantly and unfortunately suffer from writer's block.
2. I am incredibly boring.
3. I value the privacy of my thoughts. However superficial and irrelevant they may be. They are mine and we share a priceless bond in my few and rare moments of lucidity.
Against rhyme and reason, and against all odds I've made the difficult decision to blog simply because I have a savage passion for writing. He is the lover that feeds my soul and breaks my heart. I cannot have enough.
A good friend of mine who also happened to be the editor-in-chief of the publication I used to write for in college once told me, "No one will be interested in reading an article about the trials and tribulations of a relative nobody." I was seventeen then and in my mind I was THAT relative nobody. So I wrote about things that people might care about. Hours upon hours were spent researching and writing about good study habits. Needless to say, nobody could give a fart in the air about the best way to maximize two pitiful hours of studying. They, like me, despised homework and would willingly pay whatever amount to stop schooling altogether. Inspired with a sudden rush of contempt, I wrote about my life as a student nurse. I did not receive citations, honors or recognition. But it left me dazed, as if on a momentary lunacy, people I did not know and who knew nothing about me spent approximately seven minutes of their daily routine to read what I had written. They looked at the pictures, blurry and out of focus, and pointed to the familiar faces and snickered. They scanned through the most tedious news articles and paused to examine the latest statistics of the successful examinees of the nursing licensure exam (NLE). Then they reached the last page. In it was my long article, printed in plain black ink, written on the 11th hour by a menaced madwoman who drowned sensibilities in sugary sweet coffee. A few giggles, smirks and brief pauses later, the moment has expired and they go back to the tedium of routine.
Nothing had changed. We begrudgingly finished our assignments and chased after deadlines, we were students trying to survive college and move on with our lives. The pages of our publication spent the remaining days of their ill-fated destinies as floor mats for when all the chairs were occupied, umbrellas for when there was none and the need for one arose, improvised fans as a quick remedy for the sweltering heat, paper towels for when dirt and mud desecrated the the pristine white of our nursing shoes and occasionally, as raw material to cut out the nursing seal and university logo which will be used to adorn case notebooks.
I tap my fingertips on the keyboard once more. Jubilant and wistful. I have become a piece of their day, a name on a page, a name without a face, my sentiments are theirs and we share that brief passage in time wherein my words resonated with theirs and we are comforted in the knowledge that there is someone else out there just like us. Exhausted, impatient, whining and somber. I occupy a small space of the area reserved for college memories. I reunite with my lover. He lovingly caresses my arm, the hair on my skin stand still. I will write once more. This makes me happy.
I am a relative nobody, I have my share of trials and tribulations that will not interest anyone, my days begin as soon as I regain consciousness and end when I lose sight of it, my words are simple and my thoughts are oftentimes mundane, I'm just a girl. Standing in front of boy. Asking him to--wait, that's Julia Roberts. If we're going to do this, Let's do it like grown-ups. I'm just a girl. Blogging in front of a boy. Asking him to show her his pork sword.