Escapism and Selfish Blogging

So I’ve been reading other people’s blogs.  So far, everything I’ve read were all amazingly written—be it about advice or a poem.  This platform is so great I can’t believe I just discovered it now. How all these amazing writers are all here and this site is still not very well-known (here in the Philippines, at least. I’m not sure about the other countries) is a mystery to me.  Probably because writing is still not seen as a serious work.

Anyway, I’m overwhelmed.  Here I am, a newbie blogger in the same platform with all these great ones, and all I ever wanted to begin with was to make myself consume less paper for my journals. Now I’m having followers and viewers liking my posts. 

Three, five, six people—to other bloggers these must be pathetic numbers but it always gets my heart racing every time I get notified that one person liked my post.  I feel like jumping every time someone follows my blog.

Because all I ever wanted was to write. It’s my way of giving myself hope that if I do it good enough, my life could be as exciting or as interesting or as amazing as those fictional books I read. 

Truth be told, I hate it here in Reality.  I had one or two experiences falling into depression because, compared to the stories I read, my life was dull and bland and magic-less. I remember my father looking at me while I cried pathetically.  “You need to grow up,” he said. “Get your head out of the clouds. Anchor yourself on something that’s real for once.”

But I had nothing in Reality that was strong enough to anchor to.  Country was fucked up, innocent people getting killed by the police—the very ones who were supposed to protect us—paid by politicians—the ones who were supposed to lead the country into betterment. School was fucked up, expecting everyone to perform the same even though not everyone was having the same safe and inspiring environment outside the classroom.  Family was fucked up, no matter how much everyone pretended it wasn’t.

I didn’t feel safe in the streets, even on daylight. I didn’t feel like I was learning in school.  And I didn’t feel like I was at peace at home.  So where else could I go?

Books saved me, you know. Books and TV shows, they transported me to other worlds that felt safer and more peaceful than Reality.  I never really saw myself in any “20 years from now” vision questions that teachers like to ask, because I never really expected to live that long.

My point is successful bloggers like to say blogging is more than a hobby. That it’s a business where you should think about stuff to write, stuff that your readers would like, and not just whatever you want to write. 

And I get it. If you aim to be a successful blogger, you do have to treat this as business, and not just pages in a book.  But I started doing this blog with no ambition like that.

So I’m sorry if you had such high hopes for me.  My posts might get too personal or too political at times, and you might not even be able to care less since this is all probably happening on the other side of the world from you, and you won’t even know a single name in my post.

I’m sorry, but expect me to be blogging selfishly for now. To save myself, because so far no one has ever made much of an effort to do so (not that I’m blaming anyone since I understand no one is obliged to “save” me).

To be honest, I don’t want to talk about how fucked up everything is. It pulls me closer to Reality.  But as long as it has hope to become a story, my story, I will be writing.

Make no mistake, I’m not suicidal anymore (I think). My stress from family and school problems have lessened since I went away for college, and so far the government hasn’t gotten me kidnapped or anything yet. So I guess I’m doing better than before. I just don’t want anyone to worry. Even about my blogging.

I’m not really aiming to be a successful blogger. I’m not aiming to be someone’s competition or anything that ambitious.  I just want to be a great storyteller. And for now, that challenge keeps me going.