Speaking to the void

I haven't posted in a while, yet I do check to see who looks at the blog. Where they are from, how they get linked to the blog etc. It's weird. A lot of audience is from the US/France. I have no idea if they read anything on the blog or how long they spend on there. I could make it private, but I think that in some part of my mind, I like it being public. Perhaps, it's the "archivist" in me that likes that my thoughts and writings and machinations of my imagination are floating through the cyber-realm. Perhaps my writing helps someone through a time in their life? I always liked to imagine that my old, much more serious blog did in fact help strangers out there in the world.

I find that reading someone else's thoughts gives insight into another human being, providing an escape or acting as an ephemeral and distant figure, a friend of sorts, with whom one can commiserate the woes of life. Don't we always look for some kind of help when we need it most? Though it seems that many people stay shut in, I do believe that we all look for help... However, many simply lack the means to ask for it, or, perhaps, they are surrounded by those who cannot help for some reason or another. Thusly, we tend to look internally, and even though such desperate actions tend to never solve anything, sometimes, we have no choice. (At least, we perceive a lack of options when we look to others so our only remaining salvation lies deep within ourselves, in our imaginations, our books, our fantasies, our movies, our alternate realities).

I tend to make up stories about the people who "read" or simply stumble upon my "work". What they are like? I play their roles, mimicking accents, creating whole lives and families and nations within my mind. Truthfully, they most likely just happen upon a random blog, surfing the web, coming across the most random of random things, some more savory than the next; yet, they never look. They do not spend more time than the half-second it takes to click 'next'.

And so, I speak to the void. Ironic, right? I seek guidance, fulfillment, and, maybe, commiseration by sending my words as far out as humanly possible, only to realize that I indeed am simply writing to myself. To the fictional creations of my imagination who live wherever their IP addresses happen to be.

Maybe, my 'voice' travels even farther? Beyond the space and time that lie within our realm of imagination? Through signals echoing throughout the vast abyss of space... forever travelling at the speed of light across galaxies and stars unknown, flying through black holes to worlds and times beyond even our beautiful fabrications of science fiction?

Poetic. Heroic. Fictional. But a more optimistic fiction, no? Would you rather speak to far-flung alien species, imagining yourself disseminating some kind of future gospel than living entirely within your own mind?