Last night, I found myself back on, digging around and looking at old blogs of mine. Previously, I discussed some thoughts on my digital past and the growth that I've had in my writing since then. It's very easy to feel embarrassment when reading rants and immature musings, but last night I ran across some stuff that didn't fit into that category, specifically, a post I wrote the on my birthday in 2015.

Years ago, I would try to reflect on my year near my birthday. It was a way for me to monitor growth and practice gratitude. Somewhere along the line, I've stopped recapping my year and that's disappointing, because both my recaps in 2015 and 2016 were quite enlightening to read in 2021.

As I read through my revelations from just a few short years ago, I found myself eyeballing the rest of my old deleted blogs. Was it all rubbish? Was the way I shared myself, my interests, and the things I liked all that bad? Did it truly matter if the content was temporary and permanent?

The foundation of my beliefs regarding blogging in today's world was rocked. I looked back at this frustrated younger version of me and I felt myself get envious. Here was a guy who just wrote, had no problems revamping, and just kept writing. He put forth his love of nostalgia and the personal details of his daily struggles. I read through posts about job loss, therapy, depression, video games, and movies and I kinda missed that guy.

Have I over thought this whole blogging thing? Have I preoccupied myself with templates, designs, and even privacy? Is there part of me who feels that I need to mature in my writing? Because if I'm honest, some of the stuff I was reading last night is eons better than what I've been shoveling out as of late.

I've got a little thinking to do.

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