Who knew blood, running, flowing (or rushing, as the case may be), pumping through one’s fingertips could be so beautiful?
As much as I hate to complain about anything, it seems of late that I have been missing 2010ish style blogging. You know, when people put their thoughts and feelings into prose and scribbled away snippets of their minds onto an online notebook. When photographs didn’t have to be perfect, just imperfectly perfect enough to handle being imperfect. In those days, I didn’t feel like a contestant, but someone sharing things with others. In those days, blogging felt a lot more innocent – it was an extension of hanging out with friends.
In a way, blogging is still like that – you make friends, you have people you idolize, you share content with each other… but at the end of the day, I feel like blogging has gotten a lot less personal and a lot more commercial.
Before I continue, let me say that commercial does not equate bad. No, we are peddling our own goods at the market (yes, even me) and that is perfectly fine for all eternity. I am only saying the type of peddling we have right now is different than blogging was 6+ years ago. Different also does not equal bad. I’m just not one to ever be marketing products and have 300k Instagram followers and every moment of my life be so curated that I no longer feel like myself. (Because I wouldn’t be myself. That is not to say others are not being themselves. There’s a mountain of difference.)
Nowadays, we have a magnificent world of “lessony” blogs that show us how to do things, what to style, which colors go with what, or something as simple as why you should keep more flowers around the house. I love this.
However, there is something beautiful about the older style of blogging at times, too. I adore and reminisce for the simple act of stringing a few delicate words together and sharing a delightfully imperfect photograph of a moment that matters not at all, yet so very much. Something simple, yet relative that we all know, see, and understand on such an organic level as human beings.
Such as blood coursing through one’s arm in a hotel bedroom.