And So It Is

As they say, all good things must come to an end. I've had this blog since I was 18, which is a hell of a long time to be writing in a blog. People usually change URLs the way they change diapers, or underwear - that is, to say, quite often, and quite sporadically as well. Blogger's interface has changed as well. Previously, everything was open-source, in text files, and HTML was encoded manually. These days, I can even control the privacy of my blog!

But...that wasn't the point. I wrote in a blog in order to tell people how I felt in my miniscule corner of the planet, and because I vowed to myself that I would never, EVER be ashamed of who I am and the decisions I make in this life. Good or bad, I'd like to think I stuck to that decision. What you read here is what you'll get in real life. And while I was never as prolific as the more popular bloggers out there, at least I managed to catch someone's attention once in awhile, made them think about the world we live in.

But like all stories, things come to an end. And in my case, it's primarily because I need to protect someone I love dearly, as well as to stop those pesky stalkers (and you know who you are, haha) from tracking me down online. Everything I write from now on will be locked in various other places on the Internet. Who knows, I might wish to come back here once in awhile, or perhaps re-open this when the time is right.

In the meantime, I'm keeping my archives and links (which are badly in need of repair) up for anyone who wants to peruse them. Thank you for joining me on this rollercoaster ride. I leave you now in the hands of poet laureate Billy Collins, who happens to be a poet who also inspired me to walk this path that I'm on now.

Forgetfulness
Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.