Yesterday I was walking down Greenpoint Ave. in the slightly pathetic rain and saw something (I’ve already forgotten what) that I wanted to describe (FYI, my thought process is akin to writing in a journal at all times – and yes, it gets really obnoxious), but I couldn’t do it without wanting to laugh at myself for sounding lame and memoir-y. And I came to the conclusion that one only wants to hear descriptors like “haunting” and “beautiful” and “eerie” from anonymous sources. Or when in an altered state. Likewise, it turns out that poetry when written by real, tangible personas generally comes across as creepy and contrived. It’s the reason we keep private diaries and make up identities. Why we like secret admirers better than known ones. It’s the reason the anonymity of the Internet is successful and persistent. This alternate reality is a coping mechanism and a way to perpetuate our delusions of the things we create not being stupid (or to avoid changing societal perceptions of ourselves). Unless you already seem douchey and presumptuous in real life but like a poignant genius in writing, in which case you’re welcome to hold onto that image and consider yourself among my long list of faceless online crushes.