Most of the posts I have written for this blog date way back to 2009. That feels like virtually a lifetime ago. A lot can happen in five years; the circumstances of life, one's development as a person.
Yet herein lies the essential paradox of continuity, the grand old philosophical problem of personal identity (or indeed identity in in general); how does something that changes continually yet remain the same? For we each have some "narrative", however shallow or tenuous, with which we identify our "life path". That which allows us to claim that it was me, it was my life. In any eventuality, I have decided on balance to resurrect, or indeed simply just continue, from where I left off. Some of my old posts seem almost foreign to me now... and yet, on the other hand, some appear as keenly relevant to me now as they ever were.
2014 has been emotionally dreadful. Splitting up with L., who I loved with great intensity, and indeed still love (and probably always will), has hit me like a proverbial sledgehammer. The four years with her, her son I., the dog Alfie and Poppy the cat (who I loved to bits) were some of the best of my entire life. Nearly a year on, the gaping emptiness still haunts me. The emotional pain of the loss fuels my cycling training; even when every muscle in your body is afire, it is but a small and temporary pain compared to the abyss of emptiness that opens up with the bittersweet memories of better times. Why is it that the classic catechism of having to lose something to realise how much you valued it holds so true? Yet another cruelty of human existence.
We juggle so many conflicting strands, conflicting personalities, conflicting directions; little wonder we struggle to maintain a coherent path through life.
Blogs are a peculiar thing; a public diary. A cynic could claim that it is the height of narcissism and self-absorption. A depressing analysis could view it is a result of individual alienation and atomisation of society. Whether either of these viewpoints is true or not, the fact is that every blogger writes with the same instinctive desire that every writer has: to be read, to have communicated, to have shared something of the inner world of human existence. Most of these words will go unread, or at best skim read, because the honest truth that we must all admit is that most people's blogs are primarily only really of interest to the author themselves. Let us not flatter ourselves into thinking that most of our words are even necessarily truly worth reading, rather than full of superfluous dross. No matter; I write these words, they go out into the internet void, and even if they only glance across someone's eyeballs for a few seconds on the other side of the planet, then for however brief a moment, some type of connection was made. However shallow or superficial, however inept in delivery, it is something; and something is better than nothing at all. Sometimes the little something is all we really have at times in life.