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I wonder how it feels like back in the old days. When people don’t feel the need to broadcast everything they do, every tasks, every food, every place. When everything is for the sake of the enjoyment on that very moment and not for the sake of looking back in the future. Like ‘that’s totally going in my blog’ thing‘, that ‘I should post this on my Facebook wall‘, gonna #instagramthatshit, people would ‘like‘ that I should go capture it whatever, I really had to document everything, blablabla.  You waste time taking pictures (This opinion coming from a frustrated photographer is not really reliable. Ha.) just so you can have some photos that would remind you of that moment. Those days that all you need is to feel and remember the feeling and all you’ve got flashing on you memories are the visions and the feelings inside your head. When all that matters was the world and the moment and not some superficial space where we find things and circumstances that changes our perspectives. To the world, just because someone wrote it there and to yourself just because you think someone’s life is better than yours based on what he or she posts on the cyberspace. How do I know about that? Because sometimes I feel the same way, too. What was my point again?

****

I’ve always been an open-book. That’s what I wrote in my journal. I’ve missed writing in it, now I miss blogging. Or not. I’ve tried not to update anything for a week and I’ve succeeded. I write everything there. Why did I do that? I have two social networking sites, FB and G+ (not to mention MySpace and Multiply in which I forgot my passwords, which is good), my thoughts on Twitter, my life in photos in instagram, both quite active and the stories of my life in Tumblr and WordPress. I have every bit of the details of my life out there. I really need to change something.

Privacy is something I’ve never thought of until the day I decided to just write, again, in my journal. I always think that if people are aware of my stories they would never have the chance to ruin me by making-up stories out of my secrets. My secrets would never haunt me, scared it might get out and people would know. It would never betray me, or so I thought. I know it contradicts the previous thought of sharing myself to people.

I don’t even know why I had those thoughts. Maybe my mind’s not at ease. It was never at ease. Or maybe I was thinking that nobody cares about my boring life. And probably I want someone to actually care about those little things that are me. Wishful thinking, eh?

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