Waiting for That Inevitable Doom

I am contemplating seppuku. A very recent conversation with a new-found friend, who I encountered rather oddly and who, just last night, gave me a hand in the most extensive exploration of my psyche that I've ever done so far, made me realize that it's time for an honorable exit - a ceremonial self-annihilation reserved only for those who are dignified enough to deserve an honorable death.

My friend, if willing, would actually do a good job as my personal therapist. The good doctor, in a sinister manner, hits bull's eye almost all the time, as if our brains were similarly moved by the same perverse life-force that lord over our warped existence! We subscribe to the same bullshit, so to speak. Last night, after 8 hours of psychoanalysis and counter-psychoanalysis, my self-appointed shrink admonished me that this blog may one day soon, become my Achilles' heel - the crack to my well-established Bushido - something that might one day deliver me right smack into the middle of a pack of wolves. Before it is too late, I have to kill it - to avoid falling into enemy's hands, to attenuate shame, and to avoid possible additional anguish.

Basket-case as I was, I tried to justify this humble blog's existence to my analyst. I tried to quote some of my previous entries, written during the early months of this blog. Here goes...

This (blog) is a very self-serving, childish, almost histrionic attempt to organize my thoughts, so at least I could have a semblance of order in my very disorganized life.I admit I have a severe form of neurosis which is akin to paranoia, but which I'd rather call, for simplicity's sake, Trust Issues. It's hard to believe that someone like me can actually write a rather intimate and honest online journal. I am Ms. Solitude who can't sleep in a bed with someone else, who can't endure a relaxing massage or spa which most people find comforting, who gets irritated when someone joins me in my morning walks along the boulevard, who can't go to church with other people (because that's my most intimate hour of the week), who'd rather sleep under the stars than in a tent with someone because of claustrophobia. I have this bothersome, almost alarming need to keep a safe distance all the time. I don't think I can endure anything intimate for long. But here I am, pouring out my entire life and wearing my whole heart out in...(WTF!#$#%) a crazy blog!

At this point, my therapist told me I have issues. Yeah, right. Tell me about it, doctor. As if I didn't know that all along.

On second thought, however, I think this is a manifestation of Trust Issues in its most severe form. It's really easier to share your life's story to strangers. It's easy to show a part of your heart to people you barely know, to people who are distant, almost inanimate, than to people you most hold dear.

"Then why are you talking to me?" the shrink asked. "Because you're my therapist, and you are a weird exception, damn it! Anyway, doctor..."

This is why for some people, blogs are effective. They tell a story, but never the entire story. They tell the truth, but never the whole truth. That way, reality becomes masked. The blog becomes a story, and the blogger a storyteller.

This blog is nothing but a story. And in my vocabulary, fantasy happens to be stronger than fact. What is most important is what the reader gets out of all these.

What you make out of your own reality, regardless of how other people perceive and describe theirs, that's what matters most. After all, stories unfold, whether they are written or not.

"Hmmm...", Sigmund Freud said. "Your clock is ticking..."

"So doctor, should I commit blog-suicide, then?"

With an evil smile, "Hmmm, I don't think so."

Rebel as I am, because of the simple reason that it is against my shrink's recommendations, I decided on the affirmative. Blog harakiri is an excellent proposition. This blog has to go. Like the rest of the junk in my brain, it has to be flushed down the toilet, along with the trash I furiously believed in and hoped for which i vomited out last night. Good girls should write a nice travel blog, or a photo blog. A food blog won't be too bad. Even a nonsense blog would do. Or no blog at all may actually allow me to pay more attention to my social responsibilities and help me forget the petty troubles of my mind.

This blog will disintegrate in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6... Hmmm, wait, let me think about this again. Even an outcast samurai has the right to pick the best time to die.