On blogging

When blogs begin to degenerate, they start to crumble into a sort of sad incoherence; dismembered snatches of song lyrics, aimless remarks, passionate half-formed ideas, paltry meaningless little secrets find themselves clumsily strung together by a confused mind still spinning from life's brutal banalities.

Nothing reveals empty lives better than such blogs, lives cluttered with events that unfold themselves like the plot descriptions of boring movies no one really wants to watch. These blogs remind me of the windows of apartment blocks at night, each little lighted square clamouring with activity, the messiness of lives banging about within private cubes neatly stacked atop each other.

I used to keep a diary, but I soon found that I was more enamoured about actually penning something down than I was interested in the things about which I was writing. The entire activity began to grow pointless, and more than a little saddeningly solipsist. Still, the need to write things down persists for me.

More blogs than I have cared to read have been written for the reader; this one is for myself, not so much to be read but to have been written.