It’s good to get things off your chest. They don’t belong there: put them on the Internet. Out here, there’s subway walls extending beyond the moon for spray paint, murals, poems. And it doesn’t come off.
I’ve been following a blogger for the past four years. She writes about her travels through southeast Asia, and posts a couple times a year. The posts are getting more and more spread out, but they revolve around similar themes:
She’s in a nowhere office job, or working at a bar. She’s isolated and alienated from others around her. She secretly conspires to leave; the purchase of the airline ticket triggers the blog post, and all the unknown adventure that lies ahead.
She’s now on a bus, bouncing up and down a broken, dusty road. There’s complications getting to the village, meeting her contact, or she loses her money, gets her bags stolen. The overlay is that she’s got extreme credit card debt, and can’t find the right guy. Or, the right guy is another city, not the guy she’s lying next to, who’s passed out, drunk. She also drinks a lot, dreams of writing her life story.
I’ve written her a few times, feeling compelled to offer some advice, but that’s foolish of course. She doesn’t write back. I guess when you’re offering a confession, it doesn’t matter who’s on the other side of the screen.