dear reader(s),

the struggle to write is real. it’s not that I lack topics, time, or motivation… but I do question the validity of a captive online audience. there was a time when I could write for myself in a diary with lined pages and a fake gold lock. there was a time when I could write quickly, and somehow quite academically, for a class. but lately, writing has felt like a show, like I put on my best vocab and elevated syntax so that you’ll have a glorious blog reading experience before scrolling to your feed’s next post.

but I also believe that my sole purpose for writing is not just for the glamour of properly punctuating with semi-colons. my ideal reader is not a superficial skimmer of pages.

I write to you to share my experiences in hopes that you will reflect on your beliefs and life story. maybe my goal is entwined with conceit — that my ideas here are even worth further thought. but isn’t that the core of all social media… that our private lives are worth public attention? that our lunch is pretty enough to become an Instagram-macro-shot-hashtag-noms? that our morning commute’s traffic delay sums up our view on humanity? that the red patent pumps we didn’t have the money to buy deserve permanence on a virtual wall with a caption that includes a sad face emoticon? we are empowered with the ability to document the grand — and also the mundane.

I am the journalist and photographer of my life. with that responsibility, I am also the editor. perhaps I am a better editor than I am creator lately. this post serves as a sort of contract between you and me, and I want to be held accountable for not/sharing the meaning I find in daily activities. I believe that small-minded people sit around and talk about other people; bigger minds talk about ideas.

and I have so many to share with you.

if you’ll keep reading.