“What will they think of us
When they dig us up?”
– Les Jupes, When They Dig Us Up
There’s something kind of sad about blogging. You write all these posts that reflect and describe who you are as a person, but they all end up getting buried under one another as time goes by. Eventually you reach a point where some are so far back in the archives that no one will ever read them again, and they’re forgotten.
In a way it’s a lot like real life. Experiences, memories, pieces of our personalities are all buried beneath newer content over time, and there are parts of ourselves that no one will ever know. So many of our interactions in everyday life only ever occur on the surface of the deep abyss that is our identity. People rarely need or want to know what lies beneath.
It makes me sad to think about all those forgotten posts, written but not read. And this isn’t just another obvious attempt to get people to read through my archives (although feel free to take it as such). It makes me think about all the parts of myself that no one will ever get to know, be it here or in the “real world”. It’s kind of like the old saying about a tree falling in the forest, only in a more existential sense, if that’s possible.
The same goes for old memories. Sometimes I’ll have these flashes of the past, fragmented memories from my childhood that play incoherently across my mind like damaged rolls of film. There’s a bittersweet kind of feeling that accompanies these incomplete images, a sad kind of nostalgia for what was, but more importantly regret for not being able to remember more. It’s like the rest of the memory is just on the edge of my consciousness, and if I could only reach a little father I might be able to grab it…
But they remain out of reach, and all I have left are pieces of a whole.
What’s left is buried somewhere deep within my subconscious, far below newer memories which in turn will be buried beneath newer ones as my life goes on.
And in the end what will remain? What will I have to show for my life when everything is buried beneath the surface? All the answers to questions no one ever thought to ask, all the parts of myself which should have mattered, could have mattered, if only they’d seen the surface for just a little longer? What will become of them? Will they matter then? Do they matter now?
I don’t know.