By making this post, I am committing an act of hypocrisy.
I think this "living journal" thing is bad for all of us. I think the internet is largely to blame for our current rate of behavioral sink.
We are fooled into thinking that instant communication makes us closer or more intimate. Instead, it is merely the seam ripper that destroys what little thread we have holding our relationships together. It is the junk food that ruins our metaphorical appetite for the human smorgasbord that is social interaction.
If we cannot bear the emotions that come with saying something to one's face, then chances are we are not developed enough to say them at all. An online journal is not the way to make up for our own failures and shortcomings, nor is it an excuse to be complacent in regard to expanding our horizons. Chasing such a foolish idea is like racing against the sunset; eventually, it will set on us. At that point, we're only left in the dark, by ourselves, with no idea of how to get back. The road we find ourselves on, at this point, is what our predecessors would call "The Boulevard of Broken Dreams."
As the light slowly faded from a line to a point, they began to glance at one another. Or, rather, they would have; they no longer knew where the other stood. All they shared, at that moment, was a feeling of loss and confusion. And the sensation of the ground slowly breaking up at their feet: Hers beneath her worn Reeboks, and his beneath four bare feet.
"I forgot to bring a map," she said dejectedly into the darkness. "I get the impression you did, too. Shall we forge a new path together, or do you prefer to hoof it alone?"
He spoke in his trademark monotone, unmoving, barely feeling. Yet, somewhere, there was an uncharacteristic glimmer of hope lingering beneath the surface.
"We might not be the same, but in this darkness, it suddenly makes little difference."
He grinned roguishly, yet she wasn't able to tell. But, somehow, it didn't matter. He was fairly certain she did the same.
We are fooled into thinking that instant communication makes us closer or more intimate. Instead, it is merely the seam ripper that destroys what little thread we have holding our relationships together. It is the junk food that ruins our metaphorical appetite for the human smorgasbord that is social interaction.
If we cannot bear the emotions that come with saying something to one's face, then chances are we are not developed enough to say them at all. An online journal is not the way to make up for our own failures and shortcomings, nor is it an excuse to be complacent in regard to expanding our horizons. Chasing such a foolish idea is like racing against the sunset; eventually, it will set on us. At that point, we're only left in the dark, by ourselves, with no idea of how to get back. The road we find ourselves on, at this point, is what our predecessors would call "The Boulevard of Broken Dreams."
As the light slowly faded from a line to a point, they began to glance at one another. Or, rather, they would have; they no longer knew where the other stood. All they shared, at that moment, was a feeling of loss and confusion. And the sensation of the ground slowly breaking up at their feet: Hers beneath her worn Reeboks, and his beneath four bare feet.
"I forgot to bring a map," she said dejectedly into the darkness. "I get the impression you did, too. Shall we forge a new path together, or do you prefer to hoof it alone?"
He spoke in his trademark monotone, unmoving, barely feeling. Yet, somewhere, there was an uncharacteristic glimmer of hope lingering beneath the surface.
"We might not be the same, but in this darkness, it suddenly makes little difference."
He grinned roguishly, yet she wasn't able to tell. But, somehow, it didn't matter. He was fairly certain she did the same.