How Ironic

I sometimes wonder why one should bother to blog. What does one seek to achieve by writing a quasi-autobiography? An emotional mouthpiece? Hardly, as one has to practise self-censorship unless one particularly wants to trample on other people’s feelings. In this respect a blog pales in comparison to a personal diary, where the word personal actually means something. A literary canvass? Perhaps, but not everyone is endowed with such talents (in particular, I’m having trouble with even a coherent blog entry). A complete and all-exhaustive daily account of what one did? Possible, but shouldn’t recording and archiving be left to bespectacled librarians and historians? Fundamentally, a blog is very much linked to self-exhibitionism, a virtual stage of sorts, where one shouts “look at me.” Thus for the longest time I wondered, and still wonder, about the sanity and utility of keeping a blog.

But the aforementioned points are moot since they are contained within the very subject they seek to criticise; in essence akin to Adam munching on an apple while commenting that he shouldn’t be doing so. I can imagine what Colin, my Literature mentor, would say: “How ironic.”