I’m sitting here with my friend.
He smokes his cigarette, taking long lazy drags.
And he asks me why I choose to remain anonymous in my blog.
I had mentioned to him previously that I have a blog. But he wonders why I won’t let him read it. He insists that a friend is more likely to appreciate your writing.
I bluff my way through disjointed explanations.
And he gives me that lop-sided smile I know so well.
My argument is that friends are prone to over-analyze what you write, while strangers are likely to be more objective because they are not involved in your life.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just a coward.
Maybe the opinion my friends have of me, matters to me more than that of strangers. And I’m afraid what I write here will color that.
Or maybe I’m embarrassed about how my heart is so obviously worn on my sleeve. My blog bears witness to a myriad of emotions which even people who know me well would never guess I am capable of.
It could even simply be that I fear my writing is… well just not that good.
All I know is that it’s especially hard when some opinions matter more than others.
Hence the people closest to me remain unaware of my blog.
Now our conversation is over. He’s absorbed in a cricket match.
And I’m lost in anonymity and pseudonyms.