Seeking the Gaps Between Unwritten Words

25 April 02017 (2 months ago)3 minutes of your time

It bugs me that I can’t seem to muster up the inspiration to write much here lately. Irks me. Crawls under my skin and makes me wake up at night feeling like I’m missing something.

I’ve always been a guy who documents. That’s what this is. It’s just a record of stuff I did or thought or saw or whatever. Stuff. Words. Recollections and collections of records.

Sure. I’ve strayed into raw opinion on occasion and veered into the muddy waters of trying to find a topic with more gravity than the quasi-narcissism inherent in what is essentially an online journal, but always it comes back to something much more base.

Just words.

I stumble around in the dark waters of the net these days and everything seems to have so much weight. Politics. Outrage. Failing international diplomacy. Cesspools of unbalanced economics. Culture wars. The clash of science and ideology.

And then here I am writing about video games and running through the snow.

Part of me –the part that looks at the view counts of what I write, often in the single digits– wonders if the age of the personal blog is finally smashing up against the brick wall of progress. Part of me –the part that hates the consumption of the net by divisive factions powered by billion dollar advertising contracts– wonders if I’m part of some lost, old-web, anarchist front, like that guy embedded deep in the jungle long after the war has ended still holding his post.

Writing. Posting. Holding my ground with no ulterior motive, not to sell you something, nor brand myself, nor trick you into a pyramid scheme to sell you caffeine-infused apple sauce to boost your performance potential to infinity.

So it bugs me.

It bugs me that I can’t seem to muster up the inspiration to write much more than I have here lately. It bugs me that I’m not better at peppering the net with stories that don’t doomsay the end the world, or prognosticate on the collapse of civilization. It bugs me that I can’t find a muse strong enough to tell happier stories, stories of simple things like of the millions of people who are still yet to be consumed by the tweetstorms and facebook fakery and are sill just living ordinary full lives… kinda like I want to be. Like I try to be.

I need to write more of that.

I think I do, at least. I think I need to figure out how to still do that and not hit that brick wall or be drawn out of my jungle perch by some curious internet anthropologist.

I need to keep writing.

Even if only eight people read it.


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