I have a lot of drafts lying around here. Drafts I had intended to be published. The problem is, once a few days have passed, I’ve had too much time to decide they’re not worth posting. This blog is not really a blog, after all; it’s more akin to some kind of working document that different versions of myself keep contributing to. It’s not quite a stream of consciousness, but, well, it’s sort of like a stream of consciousness. A slow, half-heartedly civilised stream. It’s like the water that comes out the pipe that’s sticking out the dam of the reservoir of consciousness.
I write the drafts when I am filled with an exuberance for blog posts, hoping to carry myself through scanter times. It’s only prudent, after all. But my prudence always seems to turn into digital littering. Maybe it even clogs the pipe.
I’m only happy, it seems, when I’m airing the laundry I just tripped over. If I’ve known about it a while it starts to feel like it should be cleaner before I show it to anyone. Logical indeed. But not practical for a blog that is not really a blog at all, but in fact a weird artificial construct attempting despite its inadequacy to channel a nebulous organic entity in some kind of meaningful way. Not that those two things have to be mutually exclusive, mind you. The point it, I use this thing to start cleaning the laundry – I don’t put the clean stuff back through! No matter what I might have thought at various times, both recent and not so, my writing here is highly unlikely to ever be polished, because that would simply disinterest me.
I should really make my peace with the whole thing once and for all.