Thirteen years ago I started writing (mostly nonsense) online.
Unlike most teenagers this blog is suspiciously quiet, must have some opinions but appears to keep them to itself, and doesn't seem to do much with its time. I should encourage it to seek some interests, get a hobby or something.
While I very rarely feel the urge to write a post, I miss that personal archive of ephemera that the act of regular blogging created, and which have tremendous power to arouse memories from the minor forgotten details. Days whose scenery and whimsy never seemed important at the time are nonetheless our past, and the details mentioned in passing, between points being made, are precisely what we lose. Like seeing a photograph of somewhere you used to live. You forgot it looked that way, despite it being the setting for a huge part of your life - and you can't remember where the photo came from. Stupid past self, photographing the old living room.
Blog posts are like little buoys marking something sunken beneath, where precious things may lie.
That's what I get out of reading the old posts, anyway, because they were my organized top-layer thoughts and feelings, and I still have (most of) the brain that created them. For the average reader I expect the experience of coming across this site while using the Internet is much like attempting to use a major shipping lane with a lot of irritating wreck markers which keep fouling the propellers and rudder.
I used to think I was writing for other people, trying to be clever or funny, but I was writing for myself the whole time.
It's sentimental, I know, but it's nice to look at from time to time and think, I forgot that was what it was like.
It is odd, but I don't know if I have it in me to give that gift again to a future self.