I'm not really all that mysterious

it's not real unless it's shared

This was always an article of faith for me: it might as well have never have happened if there isn’t a story to tell. As I’ve spent several years of my life essentially alone, this has caused me to feel a significant portion of my life is unreal and perhaps even in vain.

But this was when leaving a mark on the world was more important to me. It seems vainglorious now that the likelihood of me accomplishing some extraordinary feat (or perhaps some perfectly mundane but meaningful feat) recedes with every passing day. I still want to try to make a difference, but I’ve come to accept the possibility that I won’t. Well, like Gandhi said, whatever you do is insignificant, but it is important you do it.

Still, on these strange nights when I lie awake staring into the darkness, and my thoughts lead to memories of lost opportunities and chances I thought I had but probably never really did, I worry that there won’t be anyone to tell these little stupid stories about my life to, except the uncaring silence. So I guess trying to blog is at least an attempt—perhaps futile—to stave off my journey into annihilation by at least a little while. My small bulwark against oblivion. When all is said and done—and though I hope the end won’t be for a while yet—the only thing that ever has a chance at staying real are the words, the stories.

initially published online on:
page regenerated on: