This is not a post about how I haven’t been writing as much as I would have liked. What to readers might come across as a distinct span of quiet punctuating a near-year of fairly prolific blogging is not the subject of this blog. Instead, it is merely mentioned because all that time I would have normally developed to writing new content here has instead been deeply invested in a more meta-focused task: re-reading.
That’s right. Odd as it might sound, I’ve been reading my own blog quite a lot lately.
And, having a solid decade-plus of one’s life recorded as sporadic blips of memory available for wistful consumption is a strange sort of thing to have at one’s fingertips. There is something of a magical sort of number of years that have passed amidst all this writing — a threshold — that results in a kind of mental illusion. See, ten years is enough time for the modern equivalent of one of Shakespeare’s poetically termed Ages of Man to have passed. Ten years is enough time for at least one of those so-called Seasons of Life to have clearly flipped. Life between then and now has just moved along, it has reshaped itself to something almost completely unrecognizable.
We like to talk about how events change and shape us, but so often we only really get glimpses of this as short term and incremental. Or, through photos we look at old images of ourselves and try and remember where we were, what we were doing in those pictures and why we were wearing such hideous clothing while doing it.
But words are different. Words are so much more deliberate. Every word has been placed after a discrete thought triggered a purposeful sentence pecked out on a keyboard one character at a time. That past sentence took nearly a minute of my life to generate, while this one occupied another. And why spend that time now if not to convey some meaning of thought to readers soon or far into the future if it has not been done so deliberately?
It’s odd also, that I find my past-self so trite. So many of my entries are cryptic and clearly messages meant to capture little more than a passing, idle whim or thought — still deliberate and purposeful — but now inclined towards a purpose I have either long-forgotten or can simply not conceptualize again.
I’ve changed, and it is such a strange thing to read that in such clear black-and-white, eleven point font.