I wrote a brilliant blog post last night….and then I deleted it.
It was beautiful.
And now it’s gone.
I didn’t delete it on accident, or because I’m an idiot, but because for a brief moment of clarity in the fog of anger that fueled the post, I listened to my better self…
Some people release their anger by hurling bone china, Tiffany lamps, and Sèvres vases at a wall…or person. (I’m such a weakling, I doubt I could even lift a Sèvres vase, much less chunk it with enough strength to cause it to shatter against the wainscoting.)
I, however, release my anger by writing impassioned texts, emails, essays – or in this case, blog posts – delineating the complete and utter idiocy, incompetence, or self-conceitedness of whatever poor fool has had the misfortune to raise my wrath.
Like the Hulk, my passion makes me powerful, and these essays are usually stunning representations of the power of words. My anger is incredibly articulate, and writing is incredibly therapeutic.
(My sister is usually the recipient of these diatribes, and she finds them vastly entertaining. Somewhere, there is a Facebook message viciously arraigning the imbecilic workers that occupy our local courthouse. It’s quite a read.)
Last night’s post was no different. As the vitriol ran freely from my pen (or…keyboard), I corralled every last drop of the indignation that had been boiling in my veins all week, and poured it into that post. In my fury, I criticized; I condemned; I verbally castrated every asinine cretin who had dared to cross me.
It was a thing to behold.
Then, as my cursor hovered over the “Publish” button, a small voice of sanity cut through the haze: “Never write anything you don’t want the whole world to read…”
It was a motif that had guided much of my life. Never write anything you don’t want the whole world to read. Never say anything you don’t want the whole world to hear.
Since my blog has the (laughable) potential of reaching the actual whole world – or at least that part of the word that has internet capability – those words took on a new sobering layer.
Did I really want the entire world to be privy to my petty dissatisfactions? Was I really so angry that I was willing to abandon all shreds of loyalty and open the objects of my irritation to public abuse? Am I really so small-minded that I assume the uncensored airing of my griefs will bring me some sort of…what?…superiority?
As I struggled with my lamentably overactive conscience, the Hulk melted away and I was left just…me…small and exhausted after the storm had passed. The issues that had, just moments before, fueled my ire, now seemed immaterial and irrelevant.
I took one last, longing look at the masterpiece I had crafted…and deleted it.