SIX MONDAYS▼▲▼

When I was coming home from my school, just as I was about to get off of the train, I saw another girl blogging on tumblr and I caught a few words of her post. To me, it looked like a personal post about coming home. I was disgusted. Not because of the post, but because I saw the girl typing the personal post. It’s one thing to see it posted on the internet, only to read the content. Then I thought that I may have done the same thing, written a similar post. The ability to write personally to an audience with autoimmunity is amazing. I know that many of you reading this I know in real life, only the difference is that you are just reading my words, not seeing me say any of this. The same phenomenon happens when I read books. I try not to think about the author writing the book. Certain parts of novels— parts that are incredibly gruesome or sexual, often get me to thinking about what the author was thinking as they wrote the book. I hate seeing a picture of the author because I want just the content of the book. I don’t want to associate these words that have moved me personally with another person. Thinking about how someone wrote those words that are full of so much emotion, whether they be on the pages of a book or on the depths of the internet, repulses me.