I've spent some time reading other people's "blogs" (I still can't get used to the word, it sounds ugly and techy). Some dance around the issues beautifully. You can't tell the age, location, sex, sexuality, name or occupation of the author from their artfully crafted and articulated text. Others are bewildering excercises in honesty - the Internet as confessional. Of course, the outcome depends upon the attitude of the author and my interpretation as the anonymous reader. One writer is insouciant, faintly arrogant and boasting of his sexual prowess. Another pours out his dissatisfactions and worries, as though to a therapist. Yet another sees the blog as a record of mundanities and platitudes in a seemingly anodyne stream of observations and consciousness.
Some "blogs" are updated many times a day, as though the author is compelled to document his every thought, others go through cycles of intermittent storytelling.
Shall I construct a fable akin to "Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter"? Or a stream of consciousness. Should you know all of me, or just the part I choose to show? Do you care?
Oscar Wilde wrote in "A woman of no importance"; "All thought is immoral. It's very essence is destruction. If you think of something you kill it. Nothing survives being thought of".
I think of this now - and you now know me. My urge is now not to think, to care for the consequences of my revelations, but merely to let this trickle develop into a stream, find its own path and flow to its outlet, whichever way it is pulled by the urgent and unreasoning force of gravity.