A few weeks ago I maintained, very convinced, but probably less convincingly, in the Facebook account of a friend, that in the best, or worst case, if I were ever tempted by personal writing, I would do it in the third person, or I would rather speak about myself as a character instead of my "self" or my "I." Every attempt to write in the first person finished in the garbage can, either cut methodically with the nail scissors, or ground in the paper grinder so that the recycling employees have no deciphering troubles with historical waste.
And here I am, swept away by the personalism mood in the blogospheric network, a blogofrenetic wanderer, swaping obsessions as you swap apples for pears.
However, the blog offers the advantage of a distancing effect that I did not know how to produce in the case of a hand-written diary. Writing on the sly leads eventually to a neurotic auto-reflexive, exclusive encounter with yourself that you are not able to elude.
Well, openly, in the shade of a blog, you can write your "own diary" that at the same time does not belong to you anymore; you switch the kaleidoscopic, amphibious faces without being riveted to the problem of your own selves as they get lost and spread like dispossessed tentacles through the net. I cannot see myself subdued to an obsessive self-reflection move on the blog. Thus, instead of dwelling down in a subterranean cave, you sprawl out in a protean floating at the surface of a screen. You interchange your faces without seeing them as, the moment you press the "Publish" button, they do not belong to themselves anymore. Their depth is situated in a zone behind the screen to which you do not have access anymore. Only the perspective of a mirror can retro-cede the face to itself.
