I get a kick out of reading a blog entry with lots of personal information. Don't you? The strange predatory feeling it invokes, and that sense of headiness knowing you're on the outside getting an inside first-hand report of perhaps something exclusive, confidential, intimate. You didn't have to ask or look for it, it was handed to you on a silver platter.
Nice homebody accounts just don't cut it anymore. Sweet stuff gives you toothache, and a cringing sensation at the back of your neck. Whereas agonizing stuffs, awful experiences, throbbing awareness ... those are award winning materials.
The deeper the pain, they say, the better the kill. The more morose the conviction, the more profound the incitement. The more intimate the story, the more poignant the feeling. How else do you think break-up songs keep winning top charts and heart-wrenching movies keep getting high ratings in the box offices? Taylor Swift to the legendary Titanic.
In each of us underlies a seeker ... a shadow of a hawk. Always skulking about, repressed and smart. Knowing when to surface, and knowing when to withdraw. Knowing when to defend, or when to offend. And knowing most of all, when to lend a supportive shoulder, open arms, an assuring pat on the back, or a nod of acknowledgement... without giving away too much of oneself or without getting too involved. Or in other words... without sounding like a stalker.
Pic courtesy of Internet Bird Collection
A short moment of reprieve. Like Eve, deceived.
We all like sheep, they say. Going where one leads. Not necessarily a bad thing that. But to let yourself out without much thought to the consequences, that is where our downfall begins. I know, I have been there, for years. Do I learn? Sometimes not as quickly as I meant to. Do I still do it? Less and less now. I find that giving my stalkers something to laugh about behind my back is distasteful, so I'd rather give them something else to wonder about. They do like a bit of mystery, a vague clue, something not quite there. Ah. Familiar territory. Don't we all go through that, one or the other?
What is there sacred anymore?
Because, why should we give anybody the satisfaction of telling them about everything that goes on in our lives, at the risk of being endlessly scorned, mocked, and made parody of? We're not celebrities, whose lives are not our own anymore. Nor are we heroes, or martyrs.
Live, love, write, document them ... whatever you do... refrain from telling the whole world everything. Everything. A vulture would feast on you in minutes. But a hawk will bide his time.
In short... Don't give me the time of the day.
P/s: There is not much point to this post other than to merely address the inner hunter in each of us. Stay in the shadow. And to us the writers, tread with care.