just minishorts.

I have always struggled with this craving for anonymity. With this blog, my struggle is a lost battle, a fact that I have resigned to.

I have come to accept the open-book quality of my life, and that this public alter ego is something that I have to live with. At several pockets of time past, I dreaded the nakedness, but I have learnt how to acquire the strength to feign ignorance, and on many occasions, even though I feel remorse for allowing this public intrusion into the personal quarters of my life, I try very hard to take all of it in stride and do the very best that I can.

Yet there is nothing I wish more than to turn back time and erase the opportunities for you to have known who minishorts is, the life she leads and the predictability of the future she is bound to face.

Herein lies the dilemma of the jaded blogger, at a point of her development in life, when she realizes that the very act of blogging has become internalized. Blogging has become as necessary as breakfast in the morning: on occasions, yes, she skips a post, but more often than not, it is rudimentary and habitual, even boring. It is occasionally spectacular, like those once-in-a-while trips to Klang for bakuteh, and other occasions may prove memorable enough to call for photographs too.

Alas, unlike breakfasts, blog posts are not excretable via the rectum. They remain locked in cyberspace, or in private collapsible folders. Of course, you may say that the option to flush away all these dreaded recordings lies at the tip of a forefinger, literally, click a mouse and it will all be trashed.

But I daren?t do so.

And so I was left with this dilemma. Almost three two and a half year?s worth of past memories? kept in the recesses of the vast blogosphere. What do I do with this junk?

Times like this I cross my fingers and hope to death that a tainted past will not affect a hopeful future.