I've just been trawling through an old friend's livejournal, back six years to when we met. Posts that refer to me and comments I left trigger my own landmarks, and remind me of my own timeline in Auckland.
I miss the old blogging. The core of my friends that blogged then, who bared their souls, with words awash in angst, updated ever more sporadically until they stopped entirely; as did I. Although many of my own words - posts and comments - are more than a touch embarrassing to re-read, I still remember a certain satisfaction in exposing all. Writing through the events in my life helped me define exactly what I was, for better or worse - and what it was I wanted to be, for better or worse.
A few key circumstances saw a gradual shift from tell-all to mum's-the-word. Blogging moved from a catharsis to a formal record, carefully contrived after any emotional confusion had already been dispatched. Such blogging tailed off pretty quickly because turmoil was always perceived as far more interesting to read than a structured - and censored - account.
Granted, the internet is a new beast; there are likely now too many people too well-connected for anyone over 25 to make the mistake of complacency, with respect to writing out their life stories. Still, there are always plenty of fascinating/tragic/exciting/shameful things I have an urge to share, for the sake of making order out of the chaos, in daylight, in the eyes of my blogger friends - but right now the competing desire to keep my private life private prevails.