Yes, I have descended to filching from weird quotes of indeterminate, ambivalent origin and intent. True, I have faltered, faded, fumbled and stumbled into that eternal bin. The crispy tang of the green fruit before ripening into succulence has mellowed into bilious patches. The neural lattice that once crackled with sparks lies buried under its own ashes.
They say there are over 500 million blogs out there as the planet encircles its yellow sun, even as average life of a blog is about one hundred days. The statistics qualifies me as the great grand gaunt ghost of a blogger wandering the world wide web with unfinished business.
How ill this blogger burns! Ha! who comes here?
Interestingly again, average span of attention bestowed upon a blogpost is less than a limb of a minute. Need I be worried then by the inevitable fugacity of this frayed corner of the Internet? The answer to that dilemma is yet another question, expanding upon the state of matter my blog has come upon: should a ghoul be worried of the impact its momentary sighting will have on fleshed beings? You would agree the hair-raising drama, and the subsequent trauma, is inherent in the briefness of appearance of such otherworldly elements. The longer staying ghosts gather no moss.
This is the point though where I begin having doubts and snap out of the daydream. The selfie-drunk generations, Millennials and Generation Z and the Ho Hum, fused with smartphones on genetic-molecular, integrated-circuit, multi-cam level, would die for a group photo with a ghost rather than run of life. Going viral is a matter of life and death, which makes me wonder,
Have you ever Instagrammed with the devil in the pale moonlight? I ask that of all my prey. I just like the sound of it.
Incidentally, the existential question was the signature of a computer virus at the fag-end of 1980s (except for the Instagram part, of course).
The muddle of midlife in the middle of civilisational outback I am moulding in has meddled with my mind in no mild a manner. I don’t recollect the passphrases to the zillion portal anymore. Sometimes, I can’t bring up the number my car bears on its backplate. There are days I try to check into an airport a day prior to or later than my booking. And whenever I am there at the appointed day, it’s not unusual for me to leave behind the luggage. Time was when I could warble the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock like an early morning bird, and here I am, not sure of the middle name of T. S. Eliot.
In the room the bloggers come and go. Talking of Michelangelo.
The gong has struck once more as I add one more ring to my girth today. The ring doesn’t ring of Muse. It has no lilt of letters or wings of words. It is a maze that doesn’t yield bits of information easily. It is a reptile that has swallowed my brood. It is a python that has swallowed my brooding. I am a Milton without my Paradise, lost or regained. I am Shakespeare without my tragedies.
Call it what you may, this felicity of oblivion is not without its bonuses however. You may drag me to a polygraph machine but might never be able to extract the status of the permafrost that shrouds my bank account. Even if one manages to crack the conundrum, anything less than zero is a place where I stand to lose nothing. The lone flip side of the condition is that my mind appears sworn to imitate my personal economics like a conjoined twin. Whatever happened to the phenomenon of harsh summers producing the truest mangoes?