What purpose does a blog serve? Perhaps to preserve the finiteness of thought a little longer, the tenderness of moments before they turn bitter.
But I have stopped writing. I was never much good at this craft. Talk to me and you will notice an eloquence in the spoken word, but a vacuous one, devoid of purpose. I am merely running ideas through my head and clumsily letting them out.
I stopped writing because there is nothing left to say. AIs can write better than me. Soon they will be better than me at most things, like loving, like kissing, like caring. My gooey brain is just waiting for the sweet relief, crying at the past I have lived, and could have lived.
I cannot write. I cannot tell you the words I want you to hear, nor the words you need to hear. You need to go deep inside your own hollow body, feel the weight of skin, muscle and fat, and simply exist in it. Cast a spell over yourself and do not let go.
My emotions cannot be drawn in pictures, nor wrapped and parcelled and handed to you as letters. So much of my experience is a sense felt. I cannot convey how much I feel. And I feel so much. I feel for the faces.
To love yourself is perhaps to accept the ugliness, the selfishness, the grief, the animal need of it all. Or perhaps I should stop trying to know these things. I need to shut down and listen more. Look people in the eyes. Ask questions. Understand. I want no praise. I want to walk, sing, feel the breeze, and stop opening my mouth to show there is something inside it.
But importantly, you must know - I am not dead. So, wish me luck.