Late yesterday night, I stumbled upon something that, for the first time in a long time, compelled me to write. It was a simple blog, unadorned, inconspicuous, untouched. The blog appeared to chronicle the descent of a single man through depression and madness during the course of a single week, culminating in a grotesque flail of finality, indicating respite in either apathy or oblivion. It had the distinct ring of some sort of suicide note. The entire blog was comprised of a mere five posts, each short message composed with equal parts verbosity, gut-wrenching desperation, and dramatic flair.
What was this miniature masterpiece? Could it be genuine? A final work of art or a work of art meant to simulate finality? I felt disturbed, violated almost. Such a brush with deepest desolation struck the chord of my mortality. Again, what was this, I cried? A sickening piece of performance art or a barren "in memoriam", suspended in cyberspace? A glance at the sitemeter indicated that this testament had little more than one hundred visitors in it's two years of existence. I felt as if I had stepped on sacred ground.
A little while later, after the shock and confusion of the encounter tapered off, I was able to observe my reaction to the strange blog at a more objective angle. What was it about the experience that so pierced me? It was, perhaps, the image of the author, that seared itself into my mind's eye. To subsume one's being into words and sentences, to commit one's very soul to text, and yet to stuff this precious essence into a lonely bottle and cast it out to the digital sea with nary an address or link to give it guidance. Had he no one to confide in? Was his only hope the infinitesimal chance that his errant missive would drift to some kind shore? I hope that it was not so.
How long will that lost bottle letter float, camouflaged by the immensity of the medium in which it is suspended? How many will stop, and read and wonder, before it finally sinks, to be reduced to a mere impression on the palimpsest of internet turnover? Nevertheless, as long as it does remain, it serves to reaffirm the existence and the humanity of both author, whether he be anguished artist or shyster, and of reader.
An emotional experience requires an apt response; and here is mine: a bottle letter of my own, out to sea. I do not know if it will ever be found and read, but it will be out there, somewhere, and that's enough for me. Dear reader, regardless of whether I continue to breathe, think, or live, know that once, I existed, and once, these were my thoughts. Dear reader, know, that you too exist, and be joyful.
Dear reader, thank you.
