I've been reading old LiveJournal posts. It's comforting, somehow, that I am recognizably the same voice, from post to post. It's disturbing, somehow, how much emotional charge and satisfaction I get from comments.
I have one of those free counter things on my journal. It's not set so that I can track IP addresses, but it merely gives a count and an idea of the domain from which readers come. I like, somehow, the fact that someone from Estonia regularly reads my journal but never comments, but in my heart, I know that it should make no difference whether the welcome lurking reader is from Estonia or from Coffeyville, Kansas.
I'm in one of those moods in which I want to run a poll, or a meme, or write something really insightful which connects with others. I suppose that's the virtual equivalent of being a little lonely, and a bit needy. Lonely and needy are not emotions I do often or well. But I'm a firm believer in owning up to whom one is at a particular moment--otherwise, I think it's hard to get over oneself. But it's so silly--nobody could have more fun and more of the "right kind" of response than I get here.
I do notice that I do my best when I do not self-censor myself, but speak from the heart and cuff. In this context, though, I then say graceless or earnest things, which I worry about. I suspect that worry is ignoble--but is it mere worthy self-protection?
I believe that instead of solving such dilemmae, I was designed to instead eat raisin bran.