Still insignificant

The beauty of blogging, a whole decade after the mass exodus from the blogosphere, is that I can write whatever the hell I feel like, and nobody gives a stuff. Who recalls that I wrote an ode to that a full ten years ago? How time flies!

I am grateful to my loyal readers, of course, who for some reason continue to tune in for another instalment of my weirdness. Apart from them, who knows who reads this nonsense? I have no idea.

I don’t include the habitual spammers, intent on giving me a dopamine hit in the hope I will respond in kind; I guarantee these will even like this mean post without reading it at all. Small pleasures.

As for the rest of the world: I have no idea what kind of weirdos find this blog in these digital backwaters. I suspect the bulk of accidental hits come from people searching for the Folio Society, publishers of very fine books. Who else? The odd troll, intent on baiting me for a couple of days.

So here we are, I write in public, and yet it’s as if I never said a word. I liken my blog to the whisper of the wind blowing in the trees. It’s there, but you barely notice it. I have given up promising to disappear, because I never do. I will leave that privilege to my readers.

I suspect I will still be here another decade from now, still wittering away to myself, still anonymous, unknown by all. That is no bitter lament; I embrace this special freedom.

For, lo, what freedom! To be able to be talk and not be heard, or write and not be read — what a magnificent freedom is that!

Insignificant

I am here for whoever passes by. They owe me nothing. If my words are of help to a complete stranger, all good. If they’re just frivolous and irrelevant, so be it. The pleasure is entirely mine.

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