My little black book

I walked upstairs last night with every intention on getting something out of the bedroom to take back with me downstairs. By the time I reached the top, however, a little black book sitting on a shelf in the office caught my eye.

So, I opened it, of course.

It was a journal I kept between graduating college and moving down to Long Beach, a span of about two years. Page after page were poorly written entries about the woes of finding a first job, the excitement of transitioning into a fully independent person and many, many useless rants about what I thought I knew about life.

Exactly the opposite of this blog.

It took me nearly an hour of reading to start wondering why I stopped writing the way I did and started writing the way I do now. What I came up with was a realization that the transparency of the internet has actually made me a less transparent person.

There was something comforting about writing in the confines of a physical book that made me feel safe about sharing some of the things that happen to cross my mind. And although it’s true that there’s something sort of condemning in committing a thought to paper, it’s equally true that Google never forgets what was posted to the web–even a measly blog.

I’m not sure what the consequence will be from my impromptu reading session, but it is having me reconsider how I blog altogether.

And it also made me forget what I went upstairs for in the first place.