Perhaps it was a bad idea, watching the clouds move in and out, stormy mid day, sunny afternoon, bored, clicking around the internet, tired of talking to the walls, last night’s half-awake typing on that hard floor producing some kind of lonely fear inside, something I’m not used to, something I wanted so desperately to rectify, so that it was the only thing on my mind the moment I woke up this morning.

I wanted to break through that layer covering this little corner, the anonymity that covers and smothers, the knowledge that like this new apartment, if I stopped writing, no one would know for a long time, if ever. That I’m on the unnoticed other side of the blogosphere, that I’m in the unnoticed apartment. I’d be noticed when the rent came due. There’s no rent online.

But now I feel like a whore, selling myself and pushing myself out on Twitter in this desperate lunge for people, for company or association in the relative safety of the internet.

I just feel like a spammer, some crazy lonely pimply teenage girl who can’t make any friends. Pathetic.

Security is a funny thing, I guess. And fear, like grief, is rarely rational.