I’ve been given a lot of suggestions for what to write about in this space. I’ve been told I should offer my take on the health care initiatives sitting before our nation right now. I’ve been told I should try to keep to philosophical musings, that I should write something profound or interesting in that regard. I’ve been told that I should write poetry, about being a father, about my views on the global political arena, the global economic rollercoaster, the latest trends in technology, my recent stories from work — the list goes on. The problem I keep having with all these suggestions, though, is that they’re laid bare, without any framework, without any question to get the mind going; I find that I need more fuel than that to truly get my motor running and post something that I feel is relevant to anything.

Then, it hit me.

Why would I write about things that are relevant? Why would I focus on the issues that others have a passion for? Shouldn’t I be writing for myself, for my own interests and ends? Why would I write about health care reform, when my faith in the system’s ability to self-adjust is so diminutive that I honestly cannot drum up the ability to care what the lawmakers decide one way or another? There are tons of blogs, newspapers, e-magazines, and forums that focus on these so-called relevant topics — am I to be just another voice in the crowd, echoing the same lack of original thought that goes into each of those dry analyses? Why would I write my philosophy, when anyone interested in such things can search the internet, their local libraries or schools, and find their own path through the twisted maze of life? I’m neither profound nor possessed of a particularly keen mind for piercing the veil of human confusion in the light of such weighty subjects. I’m just another faceless internet entity here to spout my own refuse for the world to see, on the off chance that my trash is someone else’s treasure.

So, what’s left to write? In a world where vast, nearly limitless amounts of information are so readily available at the fingertips of any who would go searching, what, of merit or value, can I add to the unending din, the white noise that is the Blogosphere? I’d like to think that some of my previous posts have had some meaning, but I can’t be sure. When I go back and read them myself, all I can do is wonder who wrote these things, and what inspired them. I feel disconnected from my own words. There is something lacking, which I cannot identify, much less seek to remedy. I’ve heard of writer’s block, but that doesn’t seem to encapsulate the separation of my own mind from the words it poured out through my fingers, from the statements of that which I believe and the truths to which I hold. It does not explain why I cannot reconcile myself against the things I’ve said before.

I suppose the gist of it is this: I spend the majority of my waking hours attached, by some fashion or another, to this screaming endless tube of information, like a coma patient attached to life support; the opinions of others, the information on the latest news stories — these are my lifeblood, perhaps moreso than the red liquid surging through my veins. If that is my vitality, my sustenance, then to write here is, in a manner, a self-mutilation, a contribution of my own plasma to the aetheric systems of support feeding the masses that exist, as I do, as shadows of themselves within a digital frame. I become something upon which creatures like myself feed, a sort of auto-cannibalistic cycle of information flooding in and out with the ebb and flow of global tides and times. We are a self-sustaining ecosystem that breeds not like rabbits, but like a virus, ever changing and adapting to a climate that is unable to cease its flux.

So, for all my lack of forethought, for all my self-doubt which tells me I have nothing of value to contribute, I press on, suspecting that somewhere, the words I say reach someone who, in their reading of them, finds some meaning which I could not have imagined to imbue. It is my contribution to the systemic health care of the internet; it is my Communist dogma in prose form — from each, according to his ability, to each, according to his need. It is my catharsis and my motivation and my weakness.  It is my passion, my dream, and my failure to achieve that dream; for if my dream is played out across this medium, and distributed for free, then how can I stand to gain anything from accomplishing the goal I set for myself every time I write?

I really do think that I think too much.

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3 Comments

  1. Boy
    Posted 13 November, 2009 at 3:58 pm | Permalink

    So?

    In the end, whether you give back to the Lifestream, or not, doesn’t really matter. This series of tubes (Not a dump truck), will exist anyways. Because its all a collective mass of faceless jagoffs posting meaningless shit everywhere they can. For those who think too much, or think too little, the internet is there for them, loving and hating, without end, or faces.

    I continue to talk to you because I think do think you have some rather interesting insights. So, keep at it, yo. Or don’t. Again, whatever 😛

  2. Posted 13 November, 2009 at 5:09 pm | Permalink

    Way to be noncommittal there, Boy.

    In all seriousness, though, I’m not about to stop doing what I do. I simply have these internal fights regarding my writing from time to time, and decided to finally give one voice — mostly as an explanation for the lack of fresh content of late.

    It’s hard to think of things to write about when you’re stuck on whether it’s worthwhile to write about anything at all (or even nothing) …

  3. Angel Sharp
    Posted 14 November, 2009 at 3:00 pm | Permalink

    Maybe you’re just an organ, pumping the plasma through the cycle, not actually an individual organism living off of the internet? You and so many others could be the “hearts of the internet.”