Sometimes — no, actually very often — I think about who is reading the words I am putting here. I am feeding into my computer and burdening the inexhaustible internet. Is there really anyone reading all this? Or am I just shouting aloud in the eternal blackhole, in which everything is absorbed and nothing returns? Truly, I don’t know whether a single person has ever ready my blog here. I don’t anyone has so far. But I am still writing because I want to communicate. Not communicate something important but just communicate. Shooting arrows in the darkness is fun enough and any seasoned archer would tell you that.
I am neither an acher, nor ‘seasoned’ in the least. However, I still write. I still shoot in the darkness perhaps I love the way these words appear here, springing from nowhere like little cute things. They are small creatures at my command. They perpetuate what I am thinking at the moment in a way that even my mind cannot. They would retain my passing thoughts, preserve them forever. These little things are my archive of thought, the archive of my being. Even if nobody reads these words ever they would still stand bravely like solitary warriors at the end of the battle.
I feel indebted to my words in a way. They are mine and they are yours but when they are put in a string like this as I am doing now, as I do almost everyday, they represent me in particular. Words belong to everyone but they are also unique in their construction. They are the living shrine of my thought process. What more could I ask for from a creation of man?