I don’t know much about you.
Any of you. And you don’t know much about me—sure you’re reading this which I suppose is a part of my soul, but you don’t know me. You don’t know the kind of nightmares I have or the things I like; you don’t know that I have a tiny scar on my neck or that my brother once bit me hard enough to draw blood (he’s an animal. A bloody animal) And I don’t know you. Maybe your brother bit you sharp enough to draw blood once upon a time, maybe you have a glorious pink alarm clock and maybe you think the cereal companies are in on a conspiracy too.
Point is, I don’t know you and you don’t know me and yet we still do. You read the crap I write and—if you have a blog too—I rifle through the scraps of your soul you plastered across the interwebz (with a z ‘cuz I’m cool like that), they might not seem like pieces of yourselves to you—but they are to me. Because I don’t know you, but I have these scraps I can piece together and guess and wonder with. So, uh, thank you for those.
I don’t know why I wrote this. I don’t even think I can figure out what my point was. It’s just we’re all living on this big piece of rock at the same time and in a few thousand years there will be no traces of any of us and future generations won’t have anything to do with most of us. The only people who’ll even know we exist are the ones who exist with us—and very few of them at that.