What's going on?

I feel like writing, all of a sudden. It's easier to do, since I'm doing it in a forgotten place, what's better than a blog inactive for the past 8 years, right? Nobody will read this.

Then why not write it into a notebook? Well, here's the thing: My needing to write comes from a need to share. I don't have anyone in my life at the moment that I can say all these things I'd like to talk about, or maybe I'm just not that person anymore who likes to talk about her feelings. It leaves me vulnerable.

Also, when I'm talking, I get lost in the beauty of words and expressions, and the meaning starts to take a back seat sometimes.

Also, when I'm talking to someone, I start mirroring their take on things, my mind slightly molds, adapting into the shape their minds crave to make a contact with. This makes me the perfect listener, but I end up saying things that are not exactly not true but maybe not the things I wanted to say. I am physically not able to be hundred percent honest when talking to another person. I find myself second-guessing every word, analyzing every reaction, playing a game. I enjoy it, it's amazing and satisfying, but at the same time, it's both involuntary, like an automatic reaction, and definitely not what I need.

Also, I do sometimes have an ulterior motive. I can't help it. If I like the person, I like them to like me. If they're pretty, even more so, I want to impress them.

If it's a stranger, I have an image to project. OK, that image is not really all that different from who I am, a neat mixture of who I am and who I really want to be. And it's a work in progress, I'm trying to become who I want to be any way. But anyways, I'm not going to talk to a stranger about my private thoughts and feelings, right? Hah, but I'm perfectly willing to put them up for anyone to find. It's like a kid hiding their diary but hoping that the mom will actually find it and see how unfairly they are treating their precious kid and repent. I did that all the time as a kid. Complained about my mom and dad in writing, then accidentally 'forgot' the diary on their dresser or something. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) for me that they respected my privacy. Life's funny like that.

Eh, so yes. Writing in a forgotten blog, then. Let me know if you find this, it would surely mortify me :)