I'm annoyed that the past keeps on slipping, as well as contemporary recollections of that past. I wrote a long article last night in this window about my history with early television, but for whatever reason the draft doesn't exist anymore. Did that even mean I had those thoughts, now that they weren't captured?
I'm sad that the 2,000 words or so I wrote are gone, but what should I have expected, writing anything in a box sketched out to me by corporate overlords who sometimes seem benevolent, sometimes seem malicious, and here I am, just a person trying to sort it all out, somehow.
How does any of us get born? What world do we come into? Why am I here in this place, in a world that changes every day, lined out by the parameters of what we've come to expect? The older I get, the more I feel John Donne was wrong and that all of us are islands, condemned to evolve in ways that are not productive to the greater good.
Time keeps on slipping, states the song, and yet that might not be the right words. Reality, as each of us perceives it, keeps on slipping. Where I sit, somewhere, I still sit lamenting that all I've written before, all of it, is in danger of disappearing away forever. I spent two hours last night documenting something of importance, and my stupidity was trusting the corporate overlords to give a shit.
It is my goal to get this blog away from here. I don't even care if anyone ever reads it, sees it. I just need to have some phantom hope that one day anything I could have said might be used to build me in a court of posterity.
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