Technology has it in for us, which is sad as it is a creature of our creation. It is one part desire, six parts dependence, with a dash of insanity. Still each year we line up like good lemmings to march off the IOS or Android cliff into the iPhone and Galaxy abyss. But we are addicts and our suppliers know us all too well, know just what will give is the rush we desire, make us willing to cast aside old comforts for the hope of newer and better. And they do provide us hours of reloading our apps and data except for those few items we cannot live without that disappear in the process.
It is there waiting, no doubt another trap, simple initially seeming pure but harboring a malevolence that will soon consume you, leave you broken, so considering the pen as a weapon, to lay waste to it, or for seppuku, both thoughts will no doubt come to mind.
It has always been like this, always will, different if you chose the digital path, but only a difference in implement, the struggle, the loss, the outcome very much the same, so consistent.
Still you take up pen, stare deeply at your adversary, swear it will not defeat you this time, battle on valiantly, but finally, and yet again, painfully concede to the omnipotent abyss that today as yesterday is the pure untouched page.
It is progressing, but that should not come as a surprise to you, for they told you it would happen and you accepted that as a fact.
It is the speed at which it has progressed, much faster than you imagined, what was once clear, now vague ever more amorphous, half already effectively gone, and the other half?
I imagine what would happen, will happen when the other begins the same journey, nothing known to impede it, and how the four remaining senses might fill the abyss that the departure of sight will leave in its growing shadow.
Like most you believe that if it is worth remembering you will, that memory is keyed to some measure of value and if you forget that value had diminished without your noticing. You accept this as a sort of gospel truth for you cannot recall that you once rejected this argument out of hand, for that has slipped way from memory and lies valueless and withering on the synaptic scrap heap. You are certain you had a childhood but just as certain you were thoughtless until age three when life came rushing in remarkable fits and starts bridged by chasms of nothing though you fear that some memories may be slipping into the abyss even as you deny that possibility.
It is a precarious balance, really, more an exercise in tottering and hearing than in standing still. Some prefer stasis, others, I included, find that leads inevitably to a loss of energy, to an entropy from which it is difficult to escape. I don’t walk along the edge of the precipice, but I do. peer over, amazed at what lies below that I hope never to see up close. Is a precarious balance, but one that can be maintained if you just close your eyes, and sense what actually lies around and beneath you.
You never read the ultimate autobiography which doesn’t exist unless you live in an Oulipian world. You can write up to the moment Of your death, and we would, if begrudgingly, conceded the last moments incompleteness, but you cannot write a true and complete autobiography without falling into the recursive abyss where everything that you say is suddenly autological and the reader collapses in on himself, a literary blackhole.