A Monster of Self-Centeredness Whose Artistic Pretensions Now Seem Grotesque

I'm embarrassed. 

Literally, almost every time I post something here lately, I feel embarrassed for sharing.

I was reading about Anais Nin recently (an article aptly titled: "Before Lena Dunham, there was Anais Nin")... And the not-surprising slut-shame-smear of a campaign that occurred posthumously, and the polarizing nature of her work even whilst alive, and the great many takes on who she was and whether her writing was worthwhile.

As newspapers said things like, "A monster of self-centeredness whose artistic pretensions now seem grotesque”- due to her belief that her diary nonfiction was as worthy as her creative fiction- I wonder if she ever felt self conscious for sharing about... sharing. Or for, essentially, being the original blogger; an essayist who didn't cloak "captions" with things not centered around her everyday. 

Still, recently, I'm grossed out by the entire concept of social media. Something that, at one time felt a new branch of a writing career tree, now flows with faceless voiceless automatons, captioning and capturing and curating things that look and sound the same. If we can't find a rhythm within the 'rithim, we are next to nothing. Nil to Nin. 

I don't want to evolve. 

I do as a person... But not in how I market that person. Maybe these essays don't matter. The posthumous legacy of lexicon will fade to the folds of my Notes app or notebooks, and I - like most of my friends who've long since passed in years past - will become not just a footnote to a river of realityless "Reels", but that person who pops in our head after 3 years gone by, and we think: "Oh yeah, I remember her. What was her handle again?" 

Am I, like the historians of a misinformed past, just a narcissist for making mini-docs like these: As if we aren't ALL newly annointed Spielbergs to our surroundings all the time now? 

I'm embarrassed.... but the writing doesn't know how to stop. 

So bury me in the margins.

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