Breathing Under: Prologue

Over the years, I’ve put up three blogs—Feast on Chaos, Under Rug Swept, Badly Drowned Boy—and have taken them down for reasons I shall attempt to tackle later. I don’t always get to write what I want to write about. I am not one of those people who can write drafts in their head and be able to write it hours or days after with the same amount of emotion and soul. I hate it when writing becomes a belaboured intellectual process. I easily lose focus and will; my memory could very well be sued for non-support.
I began keeping a blog because I felt the dire need for expression sans fear of being analysed. I wanted to express myself without being interrupted by rude people as well as well-intentioned ones. In writing, I found, needless to say, a steady stream of expression.
Feast on Chaos and Under Rug Swept were taken down because I was no longer infatuated with the fact that I was sharing my personal life with strangers—despite writing behind a nom de plume—in an online community whose residents I may never get a chance to meet. Acclaims were not enough to mask the feeling that my privacy was being violated—what with all the unsolicited advices and seemingly kind remarks. Also, I cared too much about what my friends had to say. I insisted on them to be part of my blogging life. Some liked the blogs, while others took certain posts against me.
Badly Drowned Boy was hardest to take down because it was more personal. I had already reconciled with the paranoia of the risks of having strangers peek into my personal life—the posts were bolder, unabashed—to the point where it caused a rift between me and certain friends because I let out truths that I had chosen not to share in person. I put out my heart on that blog, and the rewards were amazing: I received criticism, most of which were constructive, from bloggers across the country who liked my style of writing and the depth of emotions I was able to put into words; as a writer, I grew a sturdier spine—not caring about what strangers and friends thought of my posts, and how they reacted; and I got to ‘meet’ people who related to my posts as if we knew each other in real life. However, as readers’ comments flooded, I started feeling self-imposed pressure on my shoulder. I came to think that in blogging, one is only as good as his last post. With all the pleasant comments from hard-core—and exceptionally talented—bloggers in their own right, I felt like I wasn’t deserving of the praises. I was no longer bothered by what people would think of my writings, but I was too concerned with outdoing myself with each new post that I forgot the real essence of blogging—and my core reason for keeping a blog. I went on an indefinite blogging hiatus.

Some months ago, I regained dominance over my senses, and put up this blog. I have taken posts from the previous blogs and used them as a sort of backbone for writing again. Days ago, I realized that I no longer want to put up a new blog in the future. For me, putting up a blog and taking it down is a very exhausting—mentally. I don’t want to deal with it any more. Adapted Chaos is home. Some people are going to like what I write, and others will want to puke over it—I don't give two hoots about it anymore. I am writing for no one but myself. And I will write the way I know how—unbuttoned, unabashed, unfiltered. The badlydrownedboy has grown tired of swimming to the surface, gasping for air when clearly he can breathe underwater.

"It's not about being read; it's about being written."