It's rather uncanny. Of all the grand literary exploits that man has embarked upon, the results of which stretch the frontier of imagination to unfathomable bounds, most fringe dwelling netizens are perpetually drawn to the mundane prattlings of the every man in their blogs. Day in, day out, they sit and cathartically express their innermost feelings and heartfelt events to a culture with an excess of downtime. Digital lives projected onto a cold screen, ready for mass consumption by anyone who cares to read it. But the question remains: does anyone actually care whether one's cat has given birth to kittens? Why bother with the vagrancies of trivial, insignificant information of people we barely know - what's the point? Do we gain insight into these lives at all?
Across my various online diaries, I have ceased reporting the happenings of my life - an act of self-imposed censorship due to an overly-sensitive culture of hostile bloggers that demand their own opinions be heard, respected and never challenged. I cannot make a statement that is controversial or easily misinterpretable, negative reprocussions are an inevitable concequence.
Then what is the reason for maintaining this ongoing charade? This identity I allude to in my blogs is not me, yet it is representative of a personality that others have constructed time and again. I am not Crushtor the Robot. I am someone else. Even so, if my ancillary is not me in a literal sense, and other's online consciousness' are not theirs, who is anyone in cyberspace? Who is any one in reality, for that matter? This implicit projective and inferred identification by all has given rise to perceptions that are false and in constant error.
Blogs, then, are not used for recording one's experiences, cultural expression/critique or to construct one's identity (through their own creation or definition or through a mutually renewable opposition), they are merely validators for one's own existence; a reaffirmation that one's own consciousness exists eternally in a narcissistic broadcast to the entire world. Readings into the subtexts of blogs reveal certain images, omissions or connotations are the only true indicator of one's introspective desire; the unconscious reveals itself unwittingly time and again, exposing one's persona stemming from one's own, and one's percieved identity. Despite the restrictions and ridicule, we blog on, recieving strokes from others as if we were dogs begging for scraps underneath a table. And of the myriad subjects within the host of oceanic ideas, we always pick the same one to write about: "Look at me, I exist."