Coming to the table to write everyday means doing so even if you don’t know exactly what you’re going to say. It’s surprisingly difficult, given how often we transmit ourselves off the cuff these days. There’s something about a blank page that holds more weight than a status update box or a comment field. For the writer experiencing a block, the conventional wisdom is to just sit there and write. Just let your pen start moving or your fingers start typing and no doubt, something will come out. Just like right now. Whether or not this post will end up being a contribution to the collective consciousness, or just a long-winded version of a useless tweet is to be determined, maybe, at another time. Or more likely, this will just be suspended in existence like most of the other content out there. Read only by the author while writing it, and even then, just barely. Orphan pixels posing as prose…because you know I could delete this entire website if one day it proved counter to the narrative that I desire, no problem. I’ve had too many hard drives and computers crashed, files swallowed by the cloud, memories emptied out with my desktop trash to get that sentimental about any of this. At a certain point, you come to accept that there probably won’t be a retrospective. There will be no biographer to pore over your every notebook, no filmmaker to give your coming of age the Ken Burns treatment. It’s probably why so many of us are so willing to pick up our phones and do it ourselves. How much life do we live if we spend one half documenting the other, and how did we learn to reminisce but forget how to reflect? Or maybe it’s just me. But sometimes I try to imagine how things would’ve been different if Jesus had Instagram. Or even if he blogged. But if god’s son himself didn’t think to leave behind a memoir, a notebook, even a to-do list, yet somehow was able to be remembered for eons – albeit somewhere between fact and fiction – maybe people just remember who they want to remember, how they want to remember them. I can leave behind all the breadcrumbs I want, it doesn’t mean my legacy will stay where I left it. So I used to be prolific, but my lapse came when I realized hardly anybody was paying attention and I asked, “What’s the point?” The problem is that I took that statement as the answer, instead of actually trying to answer the question.