Unsurprisingly, this the 68th time I’ve killed and resurrected an online diary. In this version, I re-brand myself as Muni, from munimuni: to ruminate, to introspect, to reflect. This blog is called Muni over Sarsi because I contemplate my life “over” a drink no one can find any more. The prevailing assumption is that this whole exercise will most probably be a meaningless search for feelings that have little value to the general public… save for getting to know that one woman on the other side of the internet.
This attempt, less like my previous ones, will be under the guise of layers of anonymity. No more writing angsty manifestos and sappy confessions under my actual name.
I have written on the internet since I was 18 across different spaces. So, the fact that there is still instinctive recoil whenever I start to share something personal surprises me. The most prevalent thought is “Do I sound too pretentious?” followed closely by “Do I talk too much about what goes on inside my head?” By the end, the question morphs into the presumption that the reader hates me for oversharing the persistent melancholy of my life as the girl with imbalanced brain chemicals. Masquerading both as the “tortured soul” and the “courageous fighter.”
Since I am hidden behind the veil of obscured photos and handmade collages, I don’t think I’ll keep caring whether one thinks I’m sharing for the sake of attention. Frankly, I am. Who doesn’t post online not to? Why tether myself to the World Wide Web if my goal isn’t to reach some random someone out there in hopes that my life—and my work—is relatable and worth consuming?
So, I write. I keep writing. A different place every few years, but I write, nonetheless.
This is my endeavor to veer away from the gradual doomscroll-ification of Substack. Because what was once a way to share thoughts and practice prose, is now and endless river of doomscrolled Notes and enticement to pay for subscriptions.
I hope you share this journey with me. You’ll get to know me intimately without getting to know me superficially… which sometimes is a good thing.
Now, let’s begin.
—S.