You Choose the Story That You Tell

(Subtitle: I Am Your Honeybadger)

We all want to think we are the center of the universe.

And we all are, to an extent: each one of us is at the epicenter of our own existence. But some people get so caught up in having that existence validated by others - the same others who themselves are busy being consumed by the drive to prove that they have worth and their lives have meaning and merit - that the external affirmation becomes the thing of primary importance. Without it they feel invisible, ignored, disconnected...unloved. It's emotional response based on often shallow interactions and relationships-as-stage-play that things like Facebook foster.

The people who flail around in social networking and plaintively cry "I'm so interesting. What I have to say is meaningful. The food I eat is so much better than the food you eat! WHY ISN'T ANYONE PAYING ATTENTION TO MEEEEEE?!?" forget that the internet is full those same screeching, impeaching voices, from every direction, all at once. It's an endless cacophony. I'm sorry - I can only validate and reassure so many people at one time. Also, what if I don't care for your games, and your petty complaints, and your worries and unhappiness, just the same as you don't really care about mine.

I frequently post content that has met with crickets, either on FB, Twitter...this blog. I know people read what I write, even if they don't comment, because they talk to me about the things I post. They don't always agree with or like what I have to say. That's fair. I don't always like what other people say. When I can filter it to strain out some of the noise to clarify the signal coming through, all the better. Of course, my monekysphere is relatively small, compared to a lot of people I know, and there's a lot of overlap from community to community. The point isn't the acknowledgement at all for me, though. I don't use my profile for marketing, or branding or whatever the fuck. It's just me, talking. About shit. The mundane, the odd, the fantastic, whatever I feel like talking about at the time.

And yes, sometimes it is a bit like shouting into the wind, hearing my words carried off into the vastness of time and space to dissipate into nothing. But I'll keep at it as long as I have my voice and I'll still lean out into the yawning void, hopeful, listening for the sound of others shouting with me.