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If this is what I call home, why does it feel so alone?

there is something bittersweet about this whole concept of blogging. i miss the old fashion journal with it's ragged pages, smeared ink. i miss the fresh feeling of a blank page that is screaming for me to write on and on and on.... until my hand has callouses and my mind is out of words.

journals with tangible pages screams innocence. there once was a time where you wrote only for yourself never with the thought that anyone would see the words that you carefully scribed on the blank page. there was mystery and truth hidden behind the words that littered the page, so unlike today's blog and online world. no matter how hard you try to be candid, you know in the back of your mind people are reading your words. back before the world of interwebs, you relied on yourself, and didn't know about the futuristic world that the internet would soon provide you. however, even with the instantaneous connection the internet provides, i can still feel more alone than i did when it was me in the solitude of my room, my pencil and my journal. i would sit cross legged on my bed gnawing on my pencil eraser or pen top. and your journal was your best friend because you could write the ending to your day. you didn't have to worry about anyone thinking any less of you, or knowing your secrets. because your journal never betrayed you. it kept your words safe.

somehow the concept of blogging doesnt have the same impact. because these words are so much easier to erase and pretend they never existed. you never really get the satisfaction of filling up a blank page.... the way you did with your pen and paper. i dunno. i dont know how this turned into such a long uninteresting blog topic. i suppose i relate it to entire concept of my life. the longing desire for a single blank page. where i can hold the pencil.