Delete this at your peril

The Entombment (1957) by Paul Delvaux.

I was imagining deleting all this blog, easy meat, with the swift click of a trembling mouse finger. Done. It could be gone. There is that nuclear option. Down the pan goes 15 or 16 years worth of rambles, rants, changes in direction, photos, warped opinions, repetition and general nonsense. Blogging, a way to fill and mark time with loose thoughts. Some strange sense of actual achievement, making a mark, trying not to drown in a cyber sea, having your say when nobody really listens anyway, streams of consciousness, fun maybe. Words and blurb.

So I momentarily entertained the thought. Delete this pile of err.. data and then walk away. Do something more useful, more purposeful, less hit and miss ... so many misses. Burning all your diaries and going to a place where you can be just vacant. I did that once, in an actual bonfire and endured the long numbness that followed, it was me but no me.

Perhaps a break is required, some time away. It's strange how life has to be marked, events, records, statues and time lines. How we make sense of a life, all linear and rear facing. The future is just a black hole with bright puffs of hope pinging off and on,  out there in the distance, blinking, beyond reach and any proper understanding. It's all been said before and by better humans than me and they seldom left key words out of their well constructed sentences.