I used to write a blog that was very personal, revealing all my hopes and fears and dreams and insecurities about photography and nearly everything else.

I got sick of feeling so exposed. I wanted to play it cool, keep my cards close to my vest, share only the good stuff. I wanted, for once, to be mysterious.

I closed down my old blog and started fresh on Tumblr.

And I liked it at first. It felt more like a sketchbook, more like “Hey, here’s what I’m looking at/listening to/reading” without really saying anything about what I was looking at, listening to, or reading and, thus, without saying anything about what I was thinking or feeling.

I never write on Tumblr. And I miss writing.

And, in the end, I’m not mysterious, or cool, or any of the things I was trying to be. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I reveal too much, and I say things I later regret. I’m moody and impatient and a pain in the ass. I have heroes and get starstruck and hate sarcasm. I get pissed for no reason and stay pissed for hours, even if it means working to stay pissed. I can dish it out but I can’t take it. I get my feelings hurt. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing with my life, with my photography, with just about anything, least of all with this post.

I’m building up to some kind of conclusion here, but I don’t know what that conclusion is.

All I know is, I don’t like not writing and I don’t like not being honest and I don’t like trying to be something I’m not.