Muted afternoon glare through the window. Find myself an outlet on a moribund Saturday. I want to start saying something and I'm well aware less than two people will see it. Nothing will get me to write though, so I need something habitual and this can be it. I have ideas all the time which I forget or write down on paper, bundle into my pocket and then throw away because I can't be bothered to unfold them. So what makes me think I'll be bothered to update this? I probably won't, it could turn out to be one of those relics you find by mistyping, last updated 10 years ago. I always feel a profound sadness when I see it and I don't even know why. Maybe in this age of hypervisibility, when something stops 'responding' it's as good as dead. I spent this afternoon mourning blog graveyards I stumbled across, left behind as archives from the blogging craze a few years ago. Special moments occur when someone lapses out of the usual content of their blog and focusses on something deeply personal. It makes me glad that the internet keeps these things. What are people thinking deleting 5 years of blogged time? Very strange to me but I think I've done similar things in the past. People being too hard on themselves, seeing the change taking place in their own character and then being ashamed of the character they used to be. Delete that horrid blog full of 'artistic' pictures, that one's gone for a while now.
Echoes of doors being slammed in the other flat across the corridor. I actually can hear birds singing here which was something I never heard in Hackney. I did see a squirrel once in Bethnal Green, though. The quiet today is emotionally unsettling. Reading these posts from as far back as 2002 stirred something up inside me. I wouldn't mind having years of records of my thoughts. It might help me understand things better if I didn't keep forgetting things.