Recently, I’ve been finding new bloggers on WordPress. I wanted to share an entry I’d written in September.
Over the years, on WordPress, people have come and gone, shared lives and left, left old blogs to pursue new ones. They continue on with their lives, maybe updating with the occasional life update, but most often not. Sometimes blogs I’d followed closely, developed near friendships with, would be closed after years. It’d be strange, because we technically never knew each other. I never knew what they looked or sounded like and they never knew what I looked like or sounded like. All we left behind was a consistent, constant bread trail of likes and some comments. Maybe we emailed each other. Or, in a rare instance, followed each other on Instagram. (One of my favorite WordPress bloggers once emailed me: hi, I know this is very weird, but I feel like we know each other, here’s my Instagram handle)
Despite the semi-anonymity, the ease of coming and going, there still existed a tenuous connection, one that might not have ever existed in “real life,” too limited by judgement and circumstance and geography.
Nowadays, there are a handful of people I can think of who blog regularly about their lives. I find myself looking forward to their posts, eager to hear about the latest flu shot or how they never heard back from the job or how they are tensely waiting to see if their family will have them move middle schools. I root for them. I feel genuinely excited when a blogger, who started off 10 years ago as an avid gamer, is now expecting. I am sympathetic when someone has finally walked away from that toxic relationship, and is now picking up the pieces of codependency. I marvel at stories of people’s pets, lunches, friendships. And I wonder out loud about them to le beau. I live an extraordinarily boring life, which I try and eek out to the fullest. But I also live vicariously through other bloggers’ daily details.
On a similar note, sometimes I feel guilty for not writing about Expansive, General things. I feel like I’m supposed to write about Soup Kitchens or natural disasters or Large Truths about the World. And it’s not that I don’t care, I just don’t want to blog about it. It feels contrived and obligatory. But then I think of the many lives I read about, the people I follow on here, and how they don’t extend themselves to write about Grand Important things. They talk about blueberries for breakfast, picking up their kid from school, hating their job, all of which I thoroughly enjoy hearing about. Then, for a moment, I feel a little relieved, like oh, okay, so we can talk about small things particular to us and share that and that’s fine. In fact, that’s more than fine. That’s what makes it fun. For me, at least.
The community and connections, however fleeting, bridging all of our voices. The blogosphere we inhabit, we pollute with details of our lives, like tendrils. It’s like the song in Toy Story: you’ve got a friend in me, but you’ve got a blogger in me instead.