Sometimes a blog is just what a blog is. The recording of a moment, a sudden attempt to capture what is by nature ephemeral, to grasp at the truth as though it can be held back as it slips through the sieve. Sometimes, a blog is just talking to yourself, catching something that made you smile, pouring out something that would make you burst otherwise, as is, half formed, half lived, half tested. For the heart is what it is.
Sometimes a blog is just a mirror of a moment, a discrete point in time, a small bubble that is the truth before it blends into the continuity of the stories of our lives we make for ourselves. Sometimes a blog is like the equivocation of the witches that lies like truth, throwing stardust into eyes that wait too eager to believe, as though it would happen to them, just like it happened to you or to me.
Sometimes a blog is about the silences more than the words, the gaps that gloss over truth, the little airbrushing to enhance reality that makes all the difference. Sometimes a blog is about making the little pieces of the puzzle fit, sawing, polishing, scraping the edges to make them meet, throwing away the sawdust making reality.
Sometimes a blog is a little germinating seed, a little shoot sent out tentatively into the night, to grow a single leaf in the morning. Sometimes a blog is a repository of hopes and dreams, a little by little putting together of building blocks towards roofs that were never built, pillars that never withstood the storms, repairs that were never made on time, resting grounds that were never found.
Sometimes a blog is just to come to it any way you like, taking any route, just as you please, starting from anywhere, to end anywhere, or to not start or end at all but to just keep going. Sometimes a blog is to feel the texture of what is passing, the rough and the smooth, about moving from moment to moment, connecting ourselves with ourselves, feeling the materiality of the passing of our lives, knowing this too shall pass and be replaced.
Sometimes a blog is just about chronicling this or that as though our lives mattered after all and made sense.
Blogging is about leaving little signposts to our future selves, shoring up against forgetting, protecting ourselves against remembering, planting little jokes, foreshadowing, leaving behind material for irony.
Sometimes a blog is about making an end to find the beginning.
Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment.
. . .
If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
. . .
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
. . .
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
[Little Gidding, No. 4 of ‘Four Quartets,’ T.S. Eliot)
Featured image: From eleven-year-old Bottledworder