I remember the way I felt the day Astra Navigo murdered his blog. The day Squatlo killed his. The A Beer for the Shower guys theirs.
We found them in the dumpster, starved and strangled. Not even any blood. Discarded like leftovers. (The blogs, I mean.)
I felt. Betrayed.
This was a wrong, taken against me. Each one, each time. All this senseless killing. Blogicide, and it is not too much a thing to call it that, what it is, blogicide, is always a selfish act, you see, you know, because what about the ones, like us, who are the ones left behind? Left to pick up the pieces after? Left to carry on?
I remember. I remember those cowards. Those bastards. Those burn-outs. I do not forgive.
Now listen to me: I do not know who I am without a blog, not now, or, to be more specific, without planning my next blog post. Endless walks taken to find, hopefully, those perfect introductory words. This time, a relatable title. A repeatable catch phrase. And again and again, like Sisyphus, really, until it is all that I know.
This week, I’ve spent more time offline since, well, since the Clinton Administration. I don’t know why. There’s been no blog planning, either. This post isn’t planned. This post isn’t firing on all cylinders. Perhaps you can tell, perhaps, perhaps not, but something happened either way and what happened was I planned a vacation. My first, or the first worthy of the name, since 2011. I visited a friend. I looked out around me. I read a book for the pure love of reading.
All of these things. They happened. This week, they happened.
I am unfinished with blogging. Far from it. There is much to do. I have yet to post the world’s weirdest-ever flash fiction. The mind-curdlingest insight. I’ve never gone viral. But what does it mean that I feel… free?