It’s an illusion to commit anything to the internet. Writing a blog entry like writing an entry in a physical book is a mistake. It’s not ink to paper. It’s not anything to anything. It’s the rearranging of zones of differing polarities on a magnetic platter, meaningless to the human existence. I don’t even know where those spinning plates are.
I can view a notebook full of chicken scratch and I can at least try to figure out what the author meant, even if it’s a different language, I can see it. The way something is written can tell a story. Not the point of view, but the physical appearance of the letters can tell me something.
If I look at a hard disk platter, all I would see is my reflection. While it allows me some introspection, it tells me nothing.
This very post will disappear into archive oblivion a few entries from now. It won’t be flipped through by me on the way to a new, fresh page. In all likelihood, I’ll never see it again, never give it another thought.
But then again, maybe this time, maybe something in it will stick, some iota of an idea, that eternal spark that resonates with the nerve pathways that disappear and reappear in that mass of wrinkled matter contained in my skull?
It’s that hope that keeps me doing this.