254 words, about a minute to read.
First published on 2022-08-18.
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One day, we will all die. What can we hope for as consolation? Where is our meaning in the face of our inevitable doom? Our lives are fleeting, and, in a way, that makes them ever more beautiful. But our finiteness is heart-wrenching too.
I hope that some piece of me, of my soul, can live on. Whether it's in a mediocre blog post, a dusty and almost forgotten book, or an obscure scientific paper, I want some future person to read what I've written and be hit by the realization that a real person was behind it. A real, human, person poured their soul into those words, a person with hopes and dreams and regrets and flaws, who experienced not just love and happiness, but pain, and jealousy, and bitterness too.
That's what this blog is really about, I suppose. What it's always been about. It's me reaching out into the void, and saying: "I was here. I existed." I don't want what I make to be perfect. I want it to be a reflection of the real me. Not some polished version of me that never really existed. Just me.
So, if you're that future person, digging through the archives of ancient times: Hi! What's the world like? Have my fears come to life, or was I being silly? You have no idea how much I want to just sit down with you, grab some coffee, and chat.
Is coffee still around?
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