I am a private person, to a fault. There are calloused hands that sculpt my public image, hold me snug, and they are subtle yet mighty. No one has yet to trespass the checkpoint. Thought and ideas, the memory of smells and touches, all burn hot inside me, but I share them selectively, and fleetingly. I am stingy. I adore talking, and writing, and arguing passionately over cooling coffees, banging the table, occasional spittle popping out the mouth like an exclamation point. I am considered out- spoken, opinionated, possibly obnoxious. But in truth I am a coward. I stock up on secrets like a squirrel before winter. There are so many words that have been formed on my tongue, swallowed mercilessly before their birth, never given the chance to breathe.

So blogging is intimidating. And electrifying. I do not enjoy entertaining, the brightness and heat of the spotlight. I enjoy one-on-oneness, exchanges where I can control the general direction and subjects of conversation, the amount of attention and exposure. But posting is different. This is me, but unleashed. This is you, but anarchic. This is the opportunity of public acknowledgement, and the opportunity for public ridicule. Here are ideas that were born on smelly and groaning subways, on sullen front steps and in overcrowded, sweaty parks, and these ideas are suddenly hurtled into a brilliant and expansive space-an entire silicon universe. Here are memories, squashed painfully and mercilessly into the space of my brain, and here they are afloat and unsupervised. So basically, I don’t yet know where I am headed. Only that I have so, so much to say. Only that I am young, and afire.

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