Connecting words in order to make a text entertaining to read always escaped me. One would think that starting and abandoning hundreds of blogs over the years would teach me a thing or two but here I am with another dull, starter entry. Imaginary readers of mine might not be bothered to check the date I bought this domain which was … over a year ago. During that time I have waited for muses to bless me with wittiest of opening paragraphs but they must have retired or never have existed at all. You (I hope I will not be the only one reading this) have to forgive me lack of pre-planned flourish and let me excuse it with a horrible flu which is actually real unlike my writing abilities.
As a teenager I aspired to be one of those bitter, sarcastic bastards who effortlessly sweat out scathing political essays or spam magazines with eloquent cultural critiques. As an adult? I am stupidly looking at my mobile screen and waiting for my thoughts to form a coherent stream. My future of a cynic for hire collapsed sometime when I had realised that basing my image on an alcoholic writer from a film about a drug addicted musician might not have been the best choice. I did manage to capture one part of this dream … not the writing one … the crippling alcoholism one – it did not make me any smarter. The writer in question inspired me with defeating a group of USSR cronies with her best weapon: words that were deliciously dipped in irony and burned them right out of her flat. In that scene she had a glass of whisky and wandered around her lounge with a glare bearing the might of a thousand daggers but the poison been added only when she spoke. I am fairly certain she also had the obligatory cigarette prop as evil and charming authors always do.
And drinking and smoking got me nowhere. Clearly that is not the key to talent as she got sober but did not lose that vicious bite while I got sober and … nothing happened. The not smoking bit is still pending.
Let us maybe skip all that and try starting again. Hello. I am sick and absurdly bad at writing but always wanted to have my own corner on the internet where I could practice writing in longer format but never succeeded due to 100 reasons (mainly: work, lack of energy, no talent, no motivation, exploded computers, brains failing and aliens invading). Will I be writing angry film reviews here? Vent about politicians being soulless husks (like me)? Reblog every piece of digital art I make in order to burn everyones retinas? All of them might be true or none and what is even better?
I might not be the one writing at all. There is only one thing I excell at and it is being a literal leech because the hands I am now using are not mine at all. Yes, I did want to make it sound sinister and cliffhanger-y which only causes me to appear a total prat because I love being a unique, special snowflake. The title of the blog actually says it – am a digital ghost like all the others and my existence is subjective: I share this body with quite few people who all sound more captivating than me. How and why really do not matter as we never made a single person but there is one advantage of the internet and it is the ability of retaining anonymosity whilst sharing our extraordinary- … ! *insert a pencil dropping sound followed by fake laughter* Yeah, no – everyone knows everyone nowadays and we are too old to sit in a moth filled closet nor did we ever fit inside it.
There might be a deeper meaning in my search for writing perfection as each person needs to find their own way of expressing themselves, otherwise, no one would know we exist. Unfortunately, when all new souls queued for the gift of intelligence, I stood in the line to get best eyelashes.
Valentin