I'd like to think that even if one disagrees with the conclusions of Carr's The Shallows, one can agree that it does a good job of laying out the argument for the negative effects of technology and the internet without coming across as being just another tirade of a curmudgeon or luddite. Me, I'm at least one, probably both those things, so I often worry that my shared distrust of the internet is a product of something fundamentally irrational. But Carr manages to take many of my concerns and really get to why they should worry the society at large.

What's sad is that he seems to have relatively few supporters in his own generation; mine is of course beyond hope, and the one after will most likely bring about our ultimate destruction. It's remarkable how quickly society seems to have totally embraced the internet, rightfully praising its conveniences but too quickly dismissing what it loses when compared to technologies past. (I can almost picture the book being nonchalantly sunk in my lifetime, for example.) Being of the generation that came of mental maturity at the same time the internet did, it's hard to say whether the seeds for this societal shift were already in place. Maybe it's a convenient myth that people used to care about deep reading and all that in generations past. The internet may just be allowing people to indulge in frivolities that they used to indulge in through other forms. Who knows, maybe I was on the fringes starting from childhood...

Many moons ago, I used what I thought was foresight and some connection to that realm of the beyond to proudly claim just what it was I was in this life for. Naturally, I said, it is to understand! Implictly, I suppose, I meant that I wanted to understand the grander fabric of it all. There was no scope for nihilism at that age, and so meaning was taken as an assumption (nowadays, I feel it need not be an assumption, but anyhow). I thought of that incident today and wondered whether I have done that version of me justice. I feel there have been gracious moments that have gone towards such a goal, but much remains unexplored and hanging, waiting for contemplation and comprehension. The naivete of those days I have lost a little, but I still hope the sentiment holds strong in the years to come.

Yes, unfortunately, it is true, I shall soon have to follow the footsteps of many a great student before me as I tread to the uncertain lands of the US of A. Apologies for the break in the facade.

I seem to keep these feelings under check most of the time, but sometimes they come out of the cracks. "On paper", I think, "I might be another one of those people, but in my heart I know I am not". It does not take much, unsurprisingly, to make me feel this way; a small comment here or there, or worse yet a photo (which is the culprit this time). I don't want to imagine engaging in conversations that do not interest me, which makes me wonder what I am doing staying where I am in the first place. "It is meant for someone who has a true interest", I sadly tell myself, before sighing and trying my best to forget.

There might be others like me, but I doubt it; most people with blogs either seem to have no end to the amount of things they can write about, or else choose to abruptly end without any concern. The former is beyond me, and so I seem to be fixated with avoiding the latter fate, out of some quaint sense of loyalty to the blog itself (which, incidentally, is now three years old). I don't even want to think about how many times I've written these meta-posts, because it does not matter. Each one has been relevant, if uninteresting (even to me). It does beg the question of why I should write it at all, but again, it is as if the blog demands it...

The past year was pretty poor in terms of posting, and I have wanted to make it better. But try as I might, I cannot conjure up anything of interest, fictional or otherwise. My quality-control filter has become far harsher, and I reject a lot more than I used to. I suppose that is good, but I cannot help but feel as though I am on the slow path to a quiet exit. Not that the world will realize; after all, I have effectively put off most readers by my idiosyncracy, not to mention my irregularity.

'Tis a weird sort of thing, this creation of mine. I wonder what can be gleaned from it when I am not writing fiction, which is a rarity these days. The veil I use to cover the true events from my life is so thick that there are now writings that I myself cannot decipher. The events and memories they entail have long slipped away into the recesses of my mind, and now they are inseparable from fiction. I think that is a sad fate, for no doubt there was something in them if they were able to prompt a post from me (especially given how lax I seem to be in writing anything at all).

I half thought of hanging up my boots here and now - what better time than the start of a new year to do away with the baggage of years gone by? I am not quite sure what has stopped me; some silly belief that there will somehow be another glorious patch as there was this time last year. Regardless, I suppose that means I am not over and done with it just yet. The future's uncertain and the end is always near!