I don’t think I am a blogger because I write. When I started blogging I was facing a challenging period, and then other challenges added to the first and the process never stopped. I lived exciting times and I am almost sure I would forget most of it, if not for blogging. Even so, the relation between writing a blog and a diary is unclear. When I write or post it isn’t the same as a diary, but with time it becomes a sort of. Blogs are a good source for all kinds of information.
Bloggers are bloggers not necessarily because they are writers or photographers or whatever they are. I think blogging is related to the fact that bloggers live an extraordinary life or just an extraordinary phase of their lives. Sometimes they believe to have some extraordinary characteristic.
From time to time I am confronted with the unusual possibility of being the character of a tale already written. It happened before. And it is happening again. For whatever reasons, now and then I find myself living the exact stories I imagined. I think it would be normal if they had happened before the writing. But no, they unfold after the writing.
Not that long ago, I wrote about women trapped into unhappy relationships and their destinies. They could just slam the door and vanish in a cold winter day or they could stay trapped forever. Two of those fictional characters endured their insipid married lives because they had conceived an annual scheme of evasion, so that they could live with someone all the joy and romance missing in their lives.
It never crossed my mind that such plans could happen more or less frequently in real life, much less in my life or in the life of someone I know. It never crossed my mind that serial betrayal would be so obvious to the eyes of those around the escapist.
One of the stories followed Angela from the moment she took a flight to meet her lover in Milan. Yes, Milan is not only about fashion. Serious romance is going on out there. She spent three blissful weeks unaware of the fact that this time her suspicious husband had taken the same flight. He booked at a nearby hotel, followed the two lovers to the places they visited and witnessed their public gestures of betrayal. He experienced all the stages of jealousy, rage and depression. Then, he returned home just in time to receive his adulterous wife as if nothing had happened. He knew that until next September everything would be fine.
Now something very similar to that is happening to someone close to me. I just marvel at how real life surprises us by surpassing our imagination and, once again, I tremble with the idea of what may happen if one day my words take a dangerous turn.