We are all so many different things to and with and for so many different people. I’m a friend, a sister, a daughter, an employee, a colleague, an intern. As a daughter I am two different people. As a sister I am three. As an employee and a colleague I am many. As a friend I am… I won’t count. It may depress me. With each individual we assume a slightly different persona, or at least we selectively conceal and reveal. Is this just me? It begs the unanswerable question: Who am I? Perhaps I am a culmination of all the different faces I assume. What an argument for being around people who bring out the best in you.

This multi-facetedness is surely one of the most complicated things about a blog. Anyone, given enough determination, can find this thing. (Especially if you have it linked from MySpace, something I discovered tonight. When did I do that? Perhaps when I first set up MySpace. I’m not really much of a MySpacer.) Anyone can read these rambling thoughts.

You might think that this would allow people an insight into who you really are. But perhaps a blog is just another persona. You’re aware of the people who might read these things when you write them. It’s no diary, no journal. Now that would be something to stumble upon.

Another thought entirely:

I am so very rarely alone. Lori is always here, and then I’m at work surrounded by people. This is not a bad thing, but perhaps rather strange, considering that I am so used to being alone, to travelling alone, to being alone back home in England. Tonight, within this space, this empty square-footage, I am struck by the fact that I inhabit this alone. That no one else can see me. That this tiny plot, this interval of the earth, is at this moment uniquely mine.

There’s a gap between aloneness and loneliness. Sometimes that gap is miles apart. At others, it’s tissue paper. With a bottle of cider and some good music, it’s the former.