Why? I think–at least I suspect–it is because I won’t put forth so much effort when it’s just for myself. I know my own stories, I know the words in my head, and it seems silly to reiterate them and prettify them for myself.
Oh, I have words in my head.
I found myself searching the internet for people I haven’t thought of in over a decade. I searched for them not because I cared to reunite with them, or because I genuinely wanted to know how their lives have turned out. I simply wanted to know the kinds of adults they’ve become. I have stories, right?, stories that manifest themselves from glimmers of memories I keep tucked away. And inside those memories are little shadows of people aching to grow into fully fleshed human beings, and I can’t help but wonder, “Did you? Did you make it out alive? Who are you now, and would who you were back then respect who you are now?”
These are questions I ask myself, too, about myself. Of course, we can’t answer our own questions. Of course we can’t.
But what we can do, you see, is put them out there. Ether, or cloud, or the great cosmos–these are places we can deposit stories that otherwise would simply rot in the recesses of our own memories.
This is where I can deposit stories. So I suppose that’s why.
