The Comfy Chair Massacre

I’ve never been a fan of blogs, but I do see the genius in them. Whoever thought of blogs was a freakin’ genius. Even while I’m writing this blog, I have this bittersweet feeling that I should and shouldn’t be doing this at the same time.

Why do I have issues with writing a simple blog?

Simple. Blogs take away the privacy of life. There was a time when people wrote in personal diaries or journals. No one saw what were written in those diaries. There were secrets there, mysteries, probably universes of thought that cannot be touched by other people and cannot be searched by any mechanism — unless you unlock that diary or break it open.

Those diaries contained precious things, like paradises, virgins, sacred temples.

My view about blogs hasn’t changed much even while I continue to write them myself. For me, they are like a created need shoved to my throat by a society that craves openness, publicity, and a cure for its boredom and lack of meaning.

This world needs to produce more goods, and in order for that to happen, it needs more transparency. It needs to see what I want. It’s like a giant market survey continuously reading my thoughts and feelings. It induces me to be creative, be free with my words and thoughts, makes me feel nirvana is just a post away — only to make me one of them, to make me into a blogger. I feel like a channel in a television or a room in a motel.

This world doesn’t need the secrecy of diaries. It needs the obscenity of blogs.

I feel like I’m writing to keep up with the world. I feel like I’m doing this to prove to the world that I can play this game of uploading and customization. I’m good. I can write blogs. Read me all you want, but I can also read you. In fact, I can read you better. Interpret me all you want, but I can rape you with my interpretations as well.

For there are questions that need to be answered:

  • Is it really necessary to tell people what happens in my life?
  • If it is, why?
  • What do I have to gain from such an act?
  • Do I have a hidden agenda for writing this blog?

Blogs are public. They’re an exhibition, a show, a circus. Indeed, at times, I feel like a performer when writing blogs.

Living, Breathing, Without You Knowing

If somewhere in Africa, a tree fell to the ground because its trunk was rotting — would you say that that tree did fell if you hadn’t known the fact? Maybe it didn’t. You don’t know it fell, so how could such a thing be true?

If no one reads this blog even though I update it every week — would you say that this blog exists? Probably not, and that is my only comfort in writing this blog.

This blog lives and breathes without you knowing. It exists for itself and not for the crowd. If entries here sound like they are written for other people, maybe because they are. Remember though that those people are in my head and nowhere else.

The Comfy Chair Massacre

This blog is entitled The Comfy Chair Massacre to pay tribute to the millions of comfortable chairs around the world that succumb to the hungry ass*s of bloggers every day. Bloggers think, sit and exploit the comfort of those chairs to accomplish whatever they want to accomplish in their blogs.

Yes, those chairs are exploited. They’re like innocent instruments of people who found a sort of sexual gratification on the Web, on their blogs. I kind of feel sorry for them. At times, I feel like blogging is a crime, a massacre of comfy chairs.

And that, my friends, is another stupid thought. That stupid thought got away from the punishing hands of gods because my blog server allowed it to live.

Underneath my ass, my chair cringes in disgust.

Share

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s