"Write. Write me a story. Write me a poem. Write our story. "- Neurotron

How real am I?

I've just Alt-Tab'ed my way into this textbox here from a Yahoo messenger window. Am staring at blank space ready to be filled with my thoughts, with my words, with my prose, with me. I quoted those lines from Neuro because they were the first words which sprung up in my mind when the person in that Yahoo window said something about me being a "writer". I remember laughing the first time she said that, I remember asking her how important were words in one's life, questioning if the ability to twist reality and to output it in beautiful words was enough to get someone to like you, wondering if there would ever be a way to draw the line between the dramatic me and the real me.

I still don't even come close to the point of considering myself a "writer", but that aside, I'm right now plagued with doubts. Though I am in an intoxicatingly mirth-filled mood right now, I do not want to let this moment go by before I see why I am this way. Sure, a lot of things have happened in the past hour to bring me here, but I'm anyway mostly this ways(slightly neurotically gleeful I mean). But significantly, its been that conversation in that Yahoo window. I admitted to the fact that my thoughts seem to be stuck in my head, that before they reach my lips to be heard by the outside world there's a huge jam. I also admitted that these same thoughts flow much more coherently to my fingertips, that is, when I write/type. This brings me to that question right there at the top. How real am I?

Why is it that I'm always ten steps ahead while typing than when I'm talking? Is this online self - Payne - an outlet to be the better me? Is there any such thing as the "better" me? TP said we live in our lives in the past, if thats the case there's no better way to realise it than here, here when I wonder if the milliseconds more of time I have to respond online changes the way that people perceive me. I wish I knew why I am this ways. I can't help but seriously interrogate myself and come up with the other question - Are these words here  "me"? And scarier - Can I actually enact out other facets to myself? Can I be false to the point of being cruelly real? Do these questions have any semblance of truth in them? Why do I even doubt myself? Why do I even do this?

Coming to the beginning of this - that window. Looking back, I'd like to think that that conversation was just about perfect and that if you are reading this, you'd never doubt me. Never. I dont even know if this post is about proving a point or about putting out the questions that continue to plague me. I guess its neither - these are just my thoughts, just my meandering musings, just my words. Just me.



Current Mood: Grand
Current Music: Evanescence - My Immortal