WordPress has informed me that today is the fourth anniversary of this blog. I started it because the weekly on-line magazine for which I wrote a column called Rants and Raves folded and a number of people asked me to keep writing. So, I did. This will be my 931st post. That’s something like 232 posts a year, or 4 or 5 posts a week. But that’s deceiving. In 2014 I posted 344 times. In 2015 I posted only 93 times. And last year, I posted 115 times but had the lowest number of views and visits of any year since I began.
I am becoming less popular every year. I also have fewer returning visitors every year.
This is interesting to me because the first few posts were about my search for myself; I wanted to find the happy, hopeful boy I was. Four years later, I am closer than I have ever been in my adult life to feeling fully me, the Charlie I was meant to be.
And fewer people are reading me.
Also interesting, because recently I have been discarded on a more personal level again. I knew it was happening the last time he and I were together, knowing as we came and went it was the end. Not goodbye. They don’t say goodbye. I don’t say goodbye. We never really say hello. This one, though, I told him my real name (although not my real age) and we got along well. Too well, I think. Like walking a path you know and suddenly you’re caught up in a spider web stretched across it you hadn’t seen, and it clings and sticks, and you’re not sure if the something that spun it is about to bite you, and it’s chilling and scary and what was a casual stroll is now fraught with dangers; and even if the web is spun of the finest most delicate silk, they are strings, and we’d promised not to have any of those.
So, he’s gone. I’m not upset. Even though he knew my real name, he knew almost nothing else about me. I never invited him into my spaces. Along with no strings, I’ve also a no invitation rule: I always go to their place. For me, it is about what we are doing together, no messy web of personal history or details in which to be caught, in which to risk becoming prey. In those meetings, those moments, I am able to be whoever I like, however much of Charlie up a tree or Charlie in a diner or Sebastian or Parker I want to be.
So, when they go, it’s someone else they’re leaving. Not me. But when someone stops reading my blog, that is me they’re leaving. At the rate I’m going, the men who don’t know my name are going to outnumber the readers of my blog.
Perhaps, I should give this a rest too, like I’ve put Twitter on hold. And, actually, nameless men for the most part. I seem to be cocooning inside books. Reading. Writing (other than this blog). Peaceful, quiet hours alone. Or, if I’m really lucky, with a dog next to me as I read, sleep, walk.
I think, in some ways, the four years of this blog have been about happy, young Charlie learning to leave behind the sad, depressed Charlie who had taken over his body. And right now, who I am, where I am, here I am, going, it’s okay for me to be less read, less held, less needing anyone other than a few really dear friends, my family, my regular dogs, my books, and me.
Love and Light dear ones, and thanks for reading.