DEAR DIARY.........NOT QUITE!

I got wired to the net, so to speak, just a week ago. I have surfed the internet before but it wasn't something that had caught my fancy and i still think it still hasn't. I was oblivious to the enitre notion of getting to know the world at your finger tips. I prefer the old fashioned way where at least you would have the satisfaction of slamming the door, a violent click just doesn't do it for me.

I finally got my net connection after half a month of heckling with the phone company and it was only time that I was introduced to this "blog" phenomenon. Apparently it is like a diary, something that you can leave your thoughts behind with. Moments of joy, sorrow, ineptitude, pain, anguish and everyother emotion that one would like to share. A personal account of the world through your unique perspective. A private moment taken out at the end of a hectic day to acknowledge the beauty of life.

But for some reason this seems so unnatural. What I am refering to is this e-log that I am attempting to compile, somehow it is not the same as compared to the furious scribblings on a chosen book which would bear the imprints of your angst even on the subsequent pages. To be very honest I do tend to overtly romanticize every mundane activity, atleast so I have noticed, maybe it is to make these routines seem exiting and different. Anyways coming back to my grouse, this just doesn't feel real.

Writing with a pen and paper has its own charm, a rustic allure which is so sensual, like spending time with a loved one, just the presence can say so much more than what all these words can describe. As opposed to this the mechanical cluncking on a keyboard makes the process of articulating your thoughts seem more like a chore. The sweet sound of sibilance in the quiet of the night when tucked away cozily in the approval of the dim night light,describing the most wonderful moments spent, accentuates its mysticism. The most private thoughts which escape in the din of the day, come back like getting reaquainted with our innermost selves. Like a mirror of our own souls that we fail to acknowledge in the company of others for the fear of being scoffed at. A confidant true to its essence, honest and understanding.

I think with time, I will get accoustomed to the erratic typing, the break in the fluidity of thought to look for 'd' which lies inconspicuosly just around the left-index finger and the hopelessness with which you stare at the pitch black screen when the lights go out before you save your document. But nothing can change the beauty of giving expression to your thoghts the old-fashioned way. What say?