Goodbye Xanga, Hello WordPress
Back in the 2000’s, Xanga was the preferred blogging platform, thee best with over 27 million users. At my high school, we used it to share our content, adolescent event filled days evidenced by endearing and free-hearted photos uploaded via PictureTrail.
I don’t know about others but in actuality, I used it as a private diary, and I let any stinging, open, opaque wounds or negative ideas fester in anger, hatred, and resentment. It pulsated aggressively and it grew unrestrained because it never found its correct outlet. To this day, I probably still do not have the well-adjusted ‘adult’ approach in dealing with emotions on the whole.
Now at 27, I am publishing entries I once wrote in secret. I can only think of 5 Xangians who can probably recall the entries I did share and who left favorable comments on my ‘writing’. My entries are vain, self-absorbed, but likely to still echo a boxed in reality preteens still live in. I think I want these entries to speak to individuals in the same age range these posts represent, because in an age of Instagram and Facebook, everything seems so superficially happy, so pictorially validated that words and ideas have fallen quite bleakly on the wayside; but I still want to speak to people of my age who feel lost and uncertain in their current being. Who knows, maybe it’s just me.
The capability to write proficiently, I feel, did get me into the college of my dreams as a junior in high school, and I feel does matter so deeply in the mechanisms and reliefs of our brain, heart, and feelings. The correlation between literacy and “success” is no joke.
I want to do what I love. I haven’t accomplished that yet and I haven’t ever tried. This is a small step towards a passion I envisioned ten years ago. There’s a reason why artists are popularly represented in black. It is so difficult to express yourself so openly – for me, in a reserved and ‘proper’, unimposing culture – for me, because I am fearful and afraid to trust – for everyone because very few of us prefer judgment and vulnerability. I’ve always wanted to write but writing, ideally editorially, at my aptitude always felt so subpar or inept. It’s no research journal I’m attempting to author and no novel I’m selling to MGM. My aim is not a Pulitzer; my aim is not Chanel shades or a Hermes bag; my aim is a voice, a speck, a speck Calvin so eloquently screamed at the vast skies, “I’M SIGNIFICANT.”
 (kənˈtent/ adjective 1. in a state of peaceful happiness; not the noun now coincidentally referring to uploaded craft)
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