Lessons Learned from Being a Blogger or Reader: A Journey through Words #WriteAPageADay #950

Lessons Learnt from Being a Blogger or Reader

I’ve learned too much, but still not enough.
A blog is like a canvas, only it’s more pixelated—
word-thoughts splattered across,
the white-screen waits for me to breathe
my thoughts, as if each post could lift
another layer of skin,
yet somehow, the internet is just another form
of invisible ink.

There is a rhythm to the click-clack,
as my fingers are called to dance on plastic keys,
tapping secrets I didn't know were mine—
that’s how it feels to write.
A deep-throat confession spilling into the ethers.
But you know?
The irony.
I pour my words, and yet,
they are swallowed whole by the void.
Somewhere, on the other end,
someone might catch them.
Or they may disappear faster than a whisper in the wind,
but in this strange space,
I'm the one who seeks to be found,
yet also lost in every sentence I craft.

A blogger's life isn’t easy;
it’s like a construction site with no end in sight.
Digging through layers of meaning,
we mine for moments,
bricks of thought,
cemented with hashtags and SEO—
all in a race to claim the ever-dying attention.
There’s beauty in the chaos,
but also the quiet despair.
The unread posts sitting in archives,
the ones I poured myself into like they were my blood—
left unnoticed, unclaimed.

I learned how to write for the algorithm,
yet I also learned to hate that very thing.
At times, I’ve struggled to write for me,
and yet the audience pulls me back—
wanting more, more, more.
Their eyes, invisible, but hungry,
hungry for the bits I serve,
but I am learning—
there’s more to writing than just being seen.
Maybe it's about something much quieter—
just knowing,
that I am here
and I am real
even when the likes are few.

I’ve learned that in writing,
you strip yourself naked.
Each blog post a form of vulnerability,
offering pieces of your heart—
and like all offerings,
not everyone will see it as sacred.
But that’s okay.
The words still count.
It doesn’t matter if you’re read by millions
or if it’s just a quiet soul
who stumbles upon your post by mistake.
I’ve learned, over and over,
that the act of writing—
of spilling ink on screens
—is an act of self-affirmation.

I’ve learned that readers are always on a hunt,
looking for the next great treasure.
But the truth?
No one really reads the way I thought they would.
There’s no sacred ritual to it.
They skim, scroll, like, swipe.
A fleeting glance,
a momentary glance—
and then, they are off.
But what they didn’t know is that
their gaze
left something behind.
Even if they only read a few lines,
their fingerprints remain,
like echoes in a room I can’t see but feel.

Being a reader is different.
It's being a passenger
on someone else’s journey,
one I didn’t ask to take
but am swept along on anyway.
I’ve learned that books are not just for learning;
they are mirrors to the soul,
showing you parts of yourself you never knew existed,
and parts of others
you were too scared to acknowledge.

When I read,
it’s not just the words I take in,
but the air,
the essence,
the silences between pages—
the parts where nothing is said
but everything is felt.
It’s funny how we get lost in books,
as if the story isn’t really the story
but something deeper,
like a subtle mirror reflecting what we don’t want to see.

I’ve learned to be patient,
to let the words seep in slowly.
There’s no rush.
The beauty is in the pauses,
the long moments between paragraphs
where you let your thoughts linger.
When I read, I don’t just read,
I absorb,
I inhale the wisdom between the commas,
the places where sentences curl up
like a cat finding comfort in the most unexpected places.
That’s what makes a good book—
the silence
where it’s okay to simply be.

I’ve also learned that reading can break your heart.
Not every story is a fairy tale;
sometimes it’s the unspoken pain
that clings to you long after the book ends.
You put it down,
but it stays with you.
It follows you through your day,
quietly tormenting you,
asking you to feel,
asking you to remember.
Sometimes, I think that’s the magic of being a reader—
to be haunted,
to live with someone else’s hurt
in a way that makes you examine your own.

Yet, I’ve also learned the power of fiction,
the way it creates a world you can escape into,
a cocoon where reality bends
and you can take off your mask
and let someone else be you.
In those moments,
the writer and the reader become one.
It’s a partnership of the soul.
One creates the world,
and the other breathes life into it.

But blogging…
it’s like giving a piece of yourself
to an audience you can’t see—
and hoping, praying,
that it makes sense to someone.
I’ve learned that you never really know if you’ve made an impact
until someone tells you,
but often, they don’t.
Still, the words live on
in the space between them and the screen.
And maybe, just maybe,
that's enough.

I’ve learned that the world of blogs and books
is both beautiful and ugly,
full of light and shadow,
like the twilight hour,
where the stars are shy,
but their presence is undeniable.
In the end, the lesson is simple:
to write,
to read,
to create and consume,
not for recognition,
but because it makes us feel whole.
And in the end, isn’t that what matters most?
To feel that we exist,
even if just for a moment,
in the pages we write,
or the ones we read.

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