All these blogs having twentieth anniversaries lately is making me a bit depressed. There’s no question that for many people, myself included, social media interrupted blogging, and I’m coming to hate this about myself. I wish I could re-assemble what blogging I did do, in various contexts, over these two decades. It’s likely all gone down the memory hole along with my inconsistent sense of self, or would take some serious hackery not just to find downloaded archives scattered across multiple hard drives but to recreate them in some sort of publicly-readable format. I wish that I had been one, single person over the course of my life, whose life could be revisited at all, through two decades of blogging. “[L]ooking back on the posts later to reflect on where you’ve been,” muses Manton Reece, “is part of why blogging is still so special.” I can’t decide if it’s too bad that I can’t, or if I’m being saved from a deeper kind of depression from being faced with a person, or rather with many persons, who never seemed to solidify into a self.

Author: Bix

The unsupported use case of a mediocre, autistic midlife in St. Johns, Oregon —now with added global pandemic.