21 november 2019
I sometimes think back to when I spent much more of my time online. I primarily lurked in forum shoutboxes until I felt confident enough to start chatting. Nothing special or obviously beautiful at the time, but I like the think it was good for me. One community, I recall, stuck out to me more than the others. I was a tinkerer then, as I suppose I still am now, and I had found a group of people who like to mess with things. To break them, first, but then to put them back together - and to understand them from the reassembly. The group was large, became small, and then became large again. A few remain from the original, but like me, most have moved on. What I love in retrospect about that group was time. All great things are derived from a willingness to sacrifice it, and the people on that website had lots of time to sacrifice. Back then, so did I. But things have changed. I realize now that the voice I spoke in then is different from the one I use now. Even as I write this, I think my words more akin to how I spoke before due to the memory this writing illicits. It is less direct that I would like. I wonder if I still speak indirectly. This place reminds me of what I valued in them. Their ingenuity, their time, the way they valued mine. I think back to when I felt as I feel dimmly now, growing brighter. I hope to stay here. I've seen a sampling of the beauty that exists in this place - not just in the beauty of the pages but the beauty of the concept. The combination serves to create something even more beautiful.
I haven't written anything meant to stay somewhere in a while. It feels odd, like carving into a stone and hoping not to screw up lest some passerby see it and recognize the mistake. Intimidating, but justly so. A good kind of intimidation. The kind that lets you know you're not wasting your time. So, if you're read this, I wonder: have you noticed the mistakes? I've decided not to edit this document, so I'm sure they're around somewhere. I hope they make my words more human. Perhaps it's presumptious of me to think these words will be read. Even if that's the case, it's reassuring to think it could be true. The feeling of shouting into the abyss without answer is almost too much to bare. Alas, I'll shout anyway.
I hope I can make something beautiful with you.