Another Year Goes By Unmentioned.
It's truly amazing, isn't it? To watch the time go by.
I've grown accustomed to updating these online accounts once a year, it seems. Livejournal, Xanga, Blogger, Vox, MySpace, deviantART. The list goes on. The story of my life is etched in binary, archived in the databases of web logs, and spanning over half a decade on strings and reply-threads.
I present various degrees of familiarity on these sites, as well.
In some places, the people of the world have access to my entire life -- or at least the parts I decided to report, edit, and stream for their entertainment value. In others, I rarely offer more than a word. A quiet link. An amusing quotation. And then, there are the times like today. It's 3-am on a Friday morning. My birthday is on Sunday. Coincidentally, it also falls on Easter this year.
Hah, upon hearing about this overlap, someone -- a random, nameless, faceless entity -- mused, "You must be holy." I smiled. I've spoken to more people in this country, region, and world for that matter, than some people speak to in their entire lives. I owe a lot of this to the Internet, of course. Transient social connections across timezones. A world where anonymity reigns, and history is debatable.
A world where I can publish my thoughts for the entire planet to read -- if they comprehend English, or broken Japanese, that is. I can publish anything. Or nothing. Even sentence fragments.
Yet in the back of my mind, I usually assume my prose will never be read. It's a silly assumption, that much is certain. If I take the time to wander through random blogs just to catch a glimpse into the thoughts of strangers, then I am sure those who find entertainment in the same manner will probably stumble onto my accounts someday.
Someday.
Once a year, I decide to return to these semi-forgotten and mostly-abandoned web accounts. Not sure what prompts me to do so -- or why I choose to come back roughly around the same time every year. And then I make a comment about how "it's been so long since I decided to visit!" Predictable. Hah, but who am I to talk about time? I live in the present, while constantly pretending not to worry about the future, and dreamily reminiscing about the past. Why do I feel the need to ramble about topics that are discussed every day to the point of overkill?
I will muse on this another day. Or perhaps next year.
I've grown accustomed to updating these online accounts once a year, it seems. Livejournal, Xanga, Blogger, Vox, MySpace, deviantART. The list goes on. The story of my life is etched in binary, archived in the databases of web logs, and spanning over half a decade on strings and reply-threads.
I present various degrees of familiarity on these sites, as well.
In some places, the people of the world have access to my entire life -- or at least the parts I decided to report, edit, and stream for their entertainment value. In others, I rarely offer more than a word. A quiet link. An amusing quotation. And then, there are the times like today. It's 3-am on a Friday morning. My birthday is on Sunday. Coincidentally, it also falls on Easter this year.
Hah, upon hearing about this overlap, someone -- a random, nameless, faceless entity -- mused, "You must be holy." I smiled. I've spoken to more people in this country, region, and world for that matter, than some people speak to in their entire lives. I owe a lot of this to the Internet, of course. Transient social connections across timezones. A world where anonymity reigns, and history is debatable.
A world where I can publish my thoughts for the entire planet to read -- if they comprehend English, or broken Japanese, that is. I can publish anything. Or nothing. Even sentence fragments.
Yet in the back of my mind, I usually assume my prose will never be read. It's a silly assumption, that much is certain. If I take the time to wander through random blogs just to catch a glimpse into the thoughts of strangers, then I am sure those who find entertainment in the same manner will probably stumble onto my accounts someday.
Someday.
Once a year, I decide to return to these semi-forgotten and mostly-abandoned web accounts. Not sure what prompts me to do so -- or why I choose to come back roughly around the same time every year. And then I make a comment about how "it's been so long since I decided to visit!" Predictable. Hah, but who am I to talk about time? I live in the present, while constantly pretending not to worry about the future, and dreamily reminiscing about the past. Why do I feel the need to ramble about topics that are discussed every day to the point of overkill?
I will muse on this another day. Or perhaps next year.
posted by Cassie at 02:44
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