You sit in front of your desk and you have the brilliant idea of reading your old posts.
You scroll down until the beginning, that day you decided you wanted to communicate your thoughts to the world, to who wanted to listen.
Little by little, post by post, you read about an old life that sometimes doesn’t seem yours.
Are you that girl? Is she still inside you? Do you recognise yourself in her phrases?
You want to delete one, two, ten posts, but you feel guilty because that would be like denying part of your life.
Do you want to do it because “What was I thinking?” or because you’re afraid someone finds your blog and therefore some of your secrets?
Do you still care about what people think? Oh yes, you do.
Do you want to burn everything and rebuild somewhere else, like you always do? No, I don’t think so, you have grown fond of your tiny creature.
What makes you want to keep it, this time? The letters that seem to follow perfectly one another like fingers on a piano? Nah, that’s not your style. It’s something rawer, natural, unprocessed, frank, open wound on this white table.
Maybe some day someone will want to sew and process all of this, but I’m sure you will not allow it.