A Blogger's Regrets

One writes a blog—and by “one” of course one refers to oneself (a.k.a. “me”)—with the notion that it goes out there on the big, wide, anonymous Internet, a tiny insignificant speck upon the pavement on which the blinding blur of the Information Superhighway takes place, where it may or may not be happened upon by some almost random, semi-anonymous assortment of broken-down individuals who choose to contemplate (or not) the trace my dried, shiny worm slitherings have made across the concrete, at their leisure. Take it or leave it. The mere fact of its existence, that orange rectangular button on my computer screen which says “Publish,” is in itself an act of constructing meaning out of my essentially meaningless existence. So I write for an abstract, outside audience. A song in the shower, or a cry in the darkness. Not for you. But for who you might be. For everyone and no one. And yes, for myself. When in fact this blog is part of a family, a very televised, public forum for a few interconnected individuals who know each other face to face yet here read each other’s diaries out loud and may occasionally recognize themselves mentioned therein, sans flattery and polite unsaids. What a strange phenomenon. Here’s to awkward conversations and apologies to housemates and classmates everywhere! My apologies.