My blog does not serve to entertain the reader. Sometimes, I think, it hardly entertains me. Problem is, if it's on the net, it ain't a secret.

I've always been acutely aware of that. Of the potent force behind every trail I leave on the internet. Nothing can everything sometimes.

I realise how some may read my words, and intrepret it differently from what I mean it to be.

And so I edit. I amend. I rarely ever write what I really mean. What is inside my head.

There's always that overwhelming feeling that I would like to become invisible.

Maybe I should be like Nirah, and remove my trace forever.

And retreat to the safe, and ever present pages of my paperback journal. Leatherbound. Floral.

A place where I can truly write what I mean.