An Intruder in My Blog

I find myself with a surfeit of time on my hands and the first thing I get busy at is... no, not my children....no, not my husband.....no, not even the growing pile of bills, papers and documents tottering atop the set of plastic drawers begging begging (for the love of God...!) begging to be filed. No, the first thing I get my hands on is my blog.

My poor neglected unsightly collection of words housed in an unseemingly motley arrangement of geometric shapes and mismatched colors which haven't been on speaking terms with the feather duster, it seems, oh for half a century or so. My blog.

There is work to be done, my pitiful mangy little project, you. Your inception was conceived in the clearest light of day, with the boldest of assumptions and the most gallant of intentions. But I have been busy with life, and now you lie here wasted and ignored, a shadow of what your parent intended you to be. Verily, there is work to be done.

And so I rummage around tools and layouts and settings and templates, eager to unleash what little technological knowledge I have of weblog refurbishment. I riffle through words of writings' past and search through long-lost links to some of my favorite writers, only to discover...

...horrors!

Who is this scary stranger who writes the story of my life, and why is she so much better than me? She uses my words and my thoughts, rubs hers sinuous self against my husband, ursurps the affectionate devotion of my sons...

She has invaded my blog!

I am violated and outraged. How dare her!

I steal a peek at the sentences she has strung together and marvel at the workings of her right brain. Would I have thought of doing the same thing the exact same way? Clearly I am the inferior being here. The very thought incites me to a jealous murdering frenzy.

*Kill! Kill!*

But how does one commit murder on oneself?

Slowly, I deflate.

I puzzle over this conundrum, and wonder how a bright and luminous being like herself could have channeled her thoughts so clearly into my typing fingertips. Surely, she is destined for greater things. And yet she has found reason to hover around the mediocre musings of a plain undecorated working mother.

I read on and I am amazed, because I can never, not in several millenia, duplicate what she has done here. But she is gone now, and I am left groping for words, and snatching futilely at ideas flitting frustratingly just out of my reach.

I wonder if she and I will cross paths again, or if traces of her have been completely blown away by whirlwinds of change and displaced by mountainous upheavals.

Again, my unfortunate collection of words and I stare at each other. I have completely forgotten what it is I have tasked myself to do. I feel a strange affinity with her, a sudden surge of maternal pride, but sadly...

It may already be too late.