Your Personal Story through the Eyes of Others

In some ways you could say that a personal blog is a country, a land which has its own flag design, culture and customs, rules and etiquette, cuisine, art, language, definition and meaning, values, creeds, opinions about what reality is, and other variations to the human being human theme.


my inner child is always getting blamed for things my inner adult breaks too!


Some personal blogs are an open world, where you can roam freely through sun-drenched meadows and pick flowers at will without the flower police arresting you, you can scrump and get drunk on the sweet coma-inducing nectar of fruits while lazing around in a glade under a tree of life, climb mountains in a single bound to plateaus above the hustle-bustle hubble-bubble to absorb panoramas seen by the eyes of another, dive from the tops of misty waterfalls and not get battered by the jagged rocks below to swim in limpid pools of iridescence, and ride unicorns while basking in your naked glory…

or explore shadowy caverns with awesome echoes, scream if you want to but be careful of the blowback from your own screaming (that’s you not someone else even if you swear someone else did it), and not get lost therein because the way out is clearly marked…

fight monsters, dragons, vampires, triffids, scary angel statues that move when you don’t look at them, and other mythical beasties, rise up against tyranny, defeat your fears, overthrow your despots, and see your scars as tattoos of triumph, your disabilities as superpowers, your madness as genius…

and the world spins around you…

you can take what you want (even pretend its yours and share it elsewhere as yours) and then leave feeling good about yourself…

perhaps because the blogger is a mess, and thankfully you’re not as messy as they are…

and you can do this because one individual is boldly and crazily sharing all of themselves (or what appears to be all of themselves, TMI, and such) publicly and they’ve allowed others free, passportless, visaless, roaming access to their world.


I have two types of handwriting – one for others to be able to read and one which no one, including me, can read. I’m most proud of the latter.


Traveling online is so much easier…

almost hassle-free…

and if you do get hassled, you can kick it off like an old loose pair of flip flops which have seen better days but have yet to go into that good night…

or you can get stuck in and knock the cyber-stuffing out of a bully (if that’s what is hassling you)…

Did you know that the word ‘bully’ was a term of endearment in archaic times (thank you random quiz I took on Merriam Webster for confusing me… I mean informing me… oh, and while I’m having an imaginary conversation with you, could you please factor in the time it takes to read your questions and the optional answers into your quizzes because sometimes you ask long questions and that 10 second ticker is ticking away… and while the points are pointless, I prefer to try and guess rather than have the answer pop-up because time has run out).

Am I going off on a tangent (as usual) or is there some direct connection between the archaic definition of the word ‘bully’ and blogging? Or timers ticking away and spending time sharing yourself and your personal country with others?

And am I ever going to explain what if anything I’ve said so far has to do with the title… and what did I mean by ‘your personal story through the eyes of others’?


what interests me about this image is where the swirly lines intersect with the blocky ones


The archaic definition of ‘bully’ is ‘sweetheart’ or ‘a fine chap’ (according to Merriam Webster)… and some bullies may think that they’re being that, ‘a fine chap/sweetheart’, while the person on the receiving end of their sweet hearted fine chapness thinks differently and possibly negatively about them and that.

Meanings, words, definitions change… sometimes over the course of many years and sometimes in the blink of an eye, as do we even when we don’t really (so many of the changes in myself aren’t really changes at all, they’re more a coming home to being as I am after a wander in the land of who I thought I was or should be but wasn’t and could never be no matter how hard I tried and sometimes seemed to succeed).

The stories we tell and the countries we create are altered, by us, by others…

The moment your share your story… it changes.

The telling of it modifies it, sometimes due to conscious effort – you change it to tell it, alter details, names, events, edit to suit the narrative, or the time frame… and sometimes the mere act of saying something out loud changes it… makes it no longer what it was when you kept it inside, loud yet silent. Inside of us everything sounds so important… magnified and idolised… outside it can sometimes become meh, which can be a disturbing shock to the system.

Or because your memory of it in the moment sees it a certain way, wounds opened, rawness ensues, perhaps you’ve been recently triggered and so it is hot off the emotional presses… but later when things get colder, scab over, heal (unless you pick at it ’cause it’s itchy), when emotions becalm… it all looks different – do you admit to the change or stick with the story told while in a storm?


but a mask is a part of the soul wearing it… things are not as separate as we would have them be for idealistic perfectionistic sake.


Others change it too when they read it, hear it, especially if they connect with it – your story is so similar to their story…

that it is altered to become theirs.

Your parent who was a narcissist becomes their spouse who is a narcissist, everything you said about your parent applies to their spouse, and your part in your relationship with your parent becomes their part in their relationship with their spouse, they become you, and suddenly you’re not you anymore and neither is your story… it’s theirs. Yours story is helping them with their story… but is their story helping you with yours?

Your Saturn square Sun becomes their Mercury conjunct Chiron or some other aspect and suddenly everything you’ve said about a placement in your chart becomes all about a placement in their chart which has no parallels to yours that you can see, but… maybe it does? They’ve seen connections between you and them, your expression of your thing with their thing… if you can’t see those connections does that mean they’re not there?

Your MBTI or other personality type system becomes all about their personality type… but the two are not the same or perhaps even remotely close… how did this happen and what are you supposed to do now? Point out they’re talking to the wrong person or… maybe go along with it and see where you end up?


Trailer for a quirky series about random people (contains substance unacceptable to some people, and I’m not just talking about the MJ)


How did a fine chap turn into a blustering browbeating person? (MW definition for Bully) And can it be reversed? Or what can you learn from it?

What can a blogger learn from those who wander in their country…

and what can we learn from wandering in the countries created by bloggers?

And is it about learning or are we just seekers of wanders in the worlds of others…

Have to admit I love wandering around in the world of others and sometimes I’m not looking for anything…

I’m just visiting somewhere or someone I’d never be able to be…

tasting tastes I don’t have…

seeing sights I can’t see…

hearing sounds I don’t hear…

and so on…

I’m that guy with that face in the screengrab below who was just surfing the waves, then a site came along and made a wave I was surfing all overly positively problematic…


Pop-up challenge via pausing too long on High Existence

I closed the tab… because I could.

Online there’s always a simple exit from someone else’s country and the labyrinths they’re created and the minotaurs which are contained within it.


Thank you for visiting my land… click away now if you haven’t already, have fun in the next country you visit!

And don’t forget to spend plenty of time in your own land exploring it, understanding it, and hearing your screams echo in your shadowy caverns realising those are yours and not someone else’s (although sometimes they are)…



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