Who do I really think I am? 

Personal websites are such a fabulous conceit.  I mean, who really cares?  I guess the logical answer is that one does a website for one's own gratification, and nothing more, so it doesn't matter if anyone really cares.  But that has never been why I have done this site.  I have always wanted to see my own words type-set, to make of my experience something that someone just passing by—without obligation or exchange—can share, and observe, and take in and make part of their own experience.  Kind of a passing-on of ...of something. 

It's not really just a passing on of the flame, although that captures some of the creative impulse.  And it is not just a contribution to the continuation of the story, although that idea contains a significant portion of the feeling which I am persuing here.  And we diminish something noble in what people do by the sharing of diaries and journals online when we reduce such efforts to mere attention seeking.  I am as juvenile as can be, and a large part of what I do here is the seeking of attention.  But in truth I have to admit, though I need to say it like a whispered confession, that I write here because I believe that every conscious experience is precious, and that every moment of awareness is unique and beautiful and irreplaceable.  And though these things need not be valued as priceless historic artifact, nor regarded as literary gems, the writing down of days is an assertion in the face of rampant banality that grandeur, and breathless wonder, and beauty are still acknowledged, appreciated and revered.  Indeed, it is within the very banality of our days where grandeur, wonder and beauty are most readily accessible to us. 

We live in a dreamless world, where vision has been captured in the cleverness of invention, and where invention has been sequestered by industry under the aegis of progress.  We must reclaim our dreams, and learn to dream them again for ourselves, dreams of unique origin rooted in the flavor and the scent of our own personal experiences; dreams of chilling and trembling awe, dreams containing visions which exceed our definition of sight, dreams revealing truths which consume our concept of fact. 

Despite my love of melancholy, there is hope.  Despite my love of darkness and despair, there is light.  And despite the futility of my search for truth, there is meaning, nonetheless.  We don't go on from here to something better; we go on from here to a better appreciation of here, into a deeper insight of now, and we learn that the cheap pennies of our experience come to us from an economy of undiscovered and uncountable value.