Instead of looking for solutions to my bloating problem (likely caused by high sodium foods and mild dehydration) I spent my nights post-shower sitting at my desk writing with just my robe on. I’d write about anything: my day, my vanishing twenties, etcetera. I wrote every day but most of it was crap.
I wrote because I knew I had something to say, I just didn’t know what, so most of the time I tried to make sense of my thoughts. Sometimes an idea would strike on an evening walk home and I would hold onto it like I’d palm a balloon from the side and force it through the elevator and my apartment door and get it all down before it slipped away.
But by then the energy would be gone. The thoughts would linger and then fade. I’d rub my eyes, I’d go to bed. And in this way, I spent hundreds of hours writing things that were half finished or half begun, probably not very good, and had nothing to show for it.
So one day I had a magical idea: I’ll publish the crap anyway. I’ll finally look for some anti-bloating tablets or maybe cut down on the salt and leak whatever I’ve written into the world. I will not tell my larger circle of friends. I will not advertise my newest piece for clout. I will just write and publish, write and publish, and hope that eventually, I’ll figure out what it is I’ve wanted to talk about for so long.
I figure the consequences will be minimal if no one is paying attention.
It then struck me that the anxiety of posting anything online is the same across all platforms. I am willingly revealing a piece of myself to a world that doesn’t think about me when it wakes up. How much of myself do I want to keep private? Do I want people to know I have a bloating problem?
