Today, Mykel (aka catukayo) laid down his last blog entry. I put in his comments box how I've been harboring some of the sentiments he has about blogging, the things you put out there, the things you have to shroud in codenames, vagueness and verbal smokescreen.

I think about my own motivations for blogging - letting off steam, aiming missives at people, attempts (pithy at times) at putting out there my grandiose thoughts on the world at large. Lately, such attempts are a series of hits and misses (mostly misses, methinks).

Why do I blog at all?

Right now, I am feeling the all-too-familiar weariness of my arms, my chest and tear ducts about to go in sync. I dread these like I dread Sunday nights at 11:59 pm.

The thought of my first childhood diary is nagging me. In a departure from the ubiquitous 'Dear Diary' greeting, I fashioned my greeting as 'Dear Amanda'. No, there is no actual Amanda, it was just a name I fancied pronouncing and calling.

And then it hit me just now. I haven't been blogging with a specific (imagined) reader in mind. Not just any reader, but someone who is far away from the madness, the deception and the shit around me.

With that sudden recollection as inspiration, I've decided to start commencing my entries with 'Dear Mykel'. Sweetie, you may have sought refuge in an undisclosed portion of the blogging unvierse, but I will attempt to keep a part of you here.

Here it goes.

Dear Mykel,

As I am listening to Tori Amos' God, I am still at a loss as to whether I should stay or leave. I know your knee-jerk response: leave. Yesterday, Celia texted the following: when I left, I was certain I won't come back anymore. Leave when there's no coming back.

You know about me and my two-year plan. How it was easy to conjure such things in your head. Then you realize you don't know squat. You tell yourself it's okay, it has always been a series of hits and misses.

I left in your comments box: go on your petal-covered path as I tread mine strewn with broken glass and thorns. Truth be told, the hairs on my nape and shoulders are constantly standing on their ends. My instincts, long-dormant, are on 24-hour duty. I carefully construct my words and my responses to everyone (and I do mean everyone).

Durga said it best: doesn't it feel like you'd rather be miserable all the time?

As you carve your new refuge, I must now retreat to...even that I don't know anymore.

A.