This is a very bad post, it is truly the worst, I promise.
I've wanted to start this blog for a while now.
For years!
That is because I'm very convinced for some reason that I have things to say. I want to write about travels and adventures and pretty mountains and flowery vales and films that I watched and satisfying sonata forms. And I want my writing to be pretty, my choice of words elegant, my opinions surprising but well argued.
I want a blog! I want a blog so much! I need to write, I need to write down all this STUFF!
But it is so hard. All arguments look good in head, all commitments and imagined futures bright when conceived and then daunting when their realisation is attempted. How can I measure up to my ideal of a writer, drawn up with great taste that frowns upon at any pathetic attempt at a serious post that I could, in my current inferior form, try to scribble down.
How can I deal with being so bad?
What if I get stuck and cannot develop and have to accept my own mediocrity? That I really have nothing to say? That my thoughts and writing is of no value...? How could I possibly start anything when such demons of stagnation and creative imprisonment haunt over me?
Today, however, striding through the Greek countryside, I realised: I just have to write one very bad post.
Anything would be a development after that.
Yes! It is evident that I have to start with the worst post.
This, right here, is the worst post this blog will ever see.
It is almost inconceivably bad. It is pretentious in a staggeringly fake way, it verbosely throws around words that are completely unnecessary, but are somehow chosen as the best possible by some weird method in a weird soul, hoping to convey something meaningful through endless self-reflection; avoiding sincerity and responsibility by hiding under layers of irony and metacommentary.
For sure, it can only get better from here.
