Cyberspace is littered with a multitude of blogs devoted to the singular purpose of telling stories - unlimited pages that chronicle the tragedies and triumphs of the extraordinary lives of ordinary people. Or should it be the other way around.
This blog does not profess to be any different.
Storytellers every one of us, we regale readers with tales that are important to us, that defines us and that assures us of our existence under the skies of our individual universe.
We publish to an audience because we matter and the subjects of our litany – they matter. We harbour the hope that somebody finds us even remotely interesting. Being forgotten is a fate worse than death. Or so I am told.
From cave drawings to sculpted monuments – we are the only species that has an intrinsic need to live a life beyond ourselves, to need to leave a legacy. Something as eternal to the human spirit as our wondrous sense of curiosity. Qualities that set the immortal cycle - where storyteller will turn to the reader who will in turn, weave stories of her own.
Some recite the story of their lives through their music and some in art. We bloggers, we seek transitory glory in the very impermanent realm of cyberspace, with our finely wrought words and pictures. And not necessarily sequenced between Google ads and Nuffnang banners.
In moments of despair I have often wondered if there is any purpose to this existence - whether I would have a story left to tell from the routine mediocrity that characterizes my days from sun up to bedtime. Mine and a million other people’s.
Yet we go on, constructing our narratives with twists and plots and surprises that mark our life’s journeys as we do our utmost to arrive at happy endings. We may not be Hemmingway, but you and I, we are still raconteurs – world class, honest and with joys, heartbreaks and other stories to tell.
This blog does not profess to be any different.
Storytellers every one of us, we regale readers with tales that are important to us, that defines us and that assures us of our existence under the skies of our individual universe.
We publish to an audience because we matter and the subjects of our litany – they matter. We harbour the hope that somebody finds us even remotely interesting. Being forgotten is a fate worse than death. Or so I am told.
From cave drawings to sculpted monuments – we are the only species that has an intrinsic need to live a life beyond ourselves, to need to leave a legacy. Something as eternal to the human spirit as our wondrous sense of curiosity. Qualities that set the immortal cycle - where storyteller will turn to the reader who will in turn, weave stories of her own.
Some recite the story of their lives through their music and some in art. We bloggers, we seek transitory glory in the very impermanent realm of cyberspace, with our finely wrought words and pictures. And not necessarily sequenced between Google ads and Nuffnang banners.
In moments of despair I have often wondered if there is any purpose to this existence - whether I would have a story left to tell from the routine mediocrity that characterizes my days from sun up to bedtime. Mine and a million other people’s.
Yet we go on, constructing our narratives with twists and plots and surprises that mark our life’s journeys as we do our utmost to arrive at happy endings. We may not be Hemmingway, but you and I, we are still raconteurs – world class, honest and with joys, heartbreaks and other stories to tell.
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