There was a time when I believed that I would find the will to write about the content of my heart and soul. That I could assemble the necessary mental provisions to consistently express myself in a form that might have more permanence. I wanted some control over a medium, or format, that wouldn‘t disappear based on the fickle nature of technology and trend. And yet here I am, having gone almost two years since writing a single word.

Don’t worry, this wasn‘t written by an AI chatbot — as far as you know. I’m kidding, it’s 100% all me. Could a chatbot actually write that? Does it have enough self-loathing and reflect to reference itself? Am I merely the avatar of an AI a century into the future? Ha, no. If I were, I wouldn’t subject myself to this specific reality of doom and inanity.

At some point, after the accumulation of years has made you realize that the road behind you is far longer than the unmapped road in front, you will wonder how who you might be remember or prolonged or even accounted for into history of your non-existence. What digital archive will remain that retains anything you’ve done. Anything you were. Anything you made. If it vanishes, what remains of you? Once this domain expires, and this hosting service shuts down, and Facebook becomes a waterfall in Ames Iowa where geese poop, where are you?

I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe I’ll write a book that no one will buy, and no one will read, but might collect dust on a shelf in a rural library Ohio, and a random visitor in the fall of 2185 will stumble upon an autobiography called “Made You Look” and pick it up and begin to read about the made up history of a man who lived over one hundred years ago, who couldn‘t quite make his life become the thing he imagined and now his ashes have nurtured the growth of a small patch of grass at the far end of a field by a lake, and the visitor will wonder why he wasted his time and continue to eat his Arby’s™ roast beef sandwich.

So not much has been happening for 591 days. How’s your day going?