The time we need to bloom
About a decade ago I maintained a blog called Desabrochar (it means to bloom in English). It was deeply special to me and I followed, what I can see today, a ritual to write it. I would login into Movable Type, write and publish.
Then I started doing a variation of that ritual: write, edit, leave it for some time (hours or days) so I would come back review it and hit publish. Then I didn’t publish everyday.
Then I published no more because it was never quite there yet.
But every piece of writing meant something. It was deep, personal, it was about things I learned, people I loved and new found words I deemed special. This blog was my keepsake… My little sacred space where I could be anything I wanted and feel anything I wanted. Where my late teenager years and beginning of twenties were not “relationship empty” and I could entertain myself by talking to myself. The “self” back then was often sweet and talkative. Also witty. It reminded me of Saint-Exupéry while I did not dare thinking I could package that lost pilot into my own self.
It was beautiful. And yes! Here I sound like an old person talking stories of long ago. But it was. Long ago! And while I wanted to change, I did not realize at the time… I wasn’t mindful enough to see… THAT was worth keeping. That sweetness, that melody… That gentle flow that would subtly provoke words on either a black or white canvas…
And while I lived, and while I changed and while I succeeded by many people’s standards… I also suffocated the words. And suddenly growing up was more than I could bare. Suddenly growing old was boring. And I suffocated the self that just wanted to BE. The girl just wanted to BE WRITING.
And here she is. Suffocated no more. While carrying more then herself and while slightly crying of happiness (for WRITING) while she carries more then herself.
This is for my girl. The self [who writes] and the one I carry. This is for almost a decade of suffocating words. This is for living through this canvas and for freedom.
This is a manifesto but it is also a silent giggle. It is tender but sharp. Forgive me for quoting one of the songs of The Phantom of the Opera but this is The Point of No Return.
And if you are here… It might be your point, too!
The Point of No Return (Oops, I did it again!!) is about getting rid of labels. From the inside of boxes. I can tell for myself that I lived more than a fair share worth of boxes and labels. I am a PHD at it. All my blogging life I started a blog then it worked out and I would immediately (if not before) think of it inside of a box. Inside a standard content type. Inside a language. That’s silly when I look back now but the hard truth.
Instead of allowing discovery… Instead of allowing the unexpected and serendipity… Instead of giving it freedom to be what it wanted to be… I boxed the content and my own mind until I would grow terribly bored of it. Oh my god, I am scratching my head just thinking about it…
But I am wiser now. And I know boxes do not work for me. I am grateful I found that out. Yes… after such a long time! But I eventually noticed and that’s awesome! So I want to share freely what I want to share. This is NOT a magazine editorial. This is my life. All colourful and eventful and limited only by time.
And this is about getting real again. For blogging for the sake of blogging and not for an agenda. Maybe I just miss the epiphany blogging used to bring. Maybe I am silly, wrong or old. But that’s me. That’s the real me and I know I also see myself as cheerful, enthusiastic and technological. And here I am going to respect my very essence however it chooses to develop itself. And blog. And blog. And keep blogging within the infinity of how time feels.
Therefore I presented to you: Blogatica: Confessions of a constant learner. One essence, a multifaceted person. This is the extension of my own self. Alive and mostly uncut. With a vivid promise to always transcend oneself.
And I am sharing it with you as deeply as I always wanted to share it: wholeheartedly and allowing the time we need to bloom.