Whirlbrain, one of those lovely people I know only as another blogger, but whom I’m glad to know, hits it right on the fucking head.It’s funny, that blog depression thing, silly as it is, distills something floating in the ether for a lot of us who’ve been blogging for a while.
Whirlbrain, one of those lovely people I know only as another blogger, but whom I’m glad to know, hits it right on the fucking head.
It’s funny, that blog depression thing, silly as it is, distills something floating in the ether for a lot of us who’ve been blogging for a while. Something about the point where the blog stops being an outlet and starts being something else, a frustration, a responsibility.
We always say to each other, like some twelve-step sponsor saying no don’t take a drink, ‘don’t stop, just take a break.’ But there’s the need to make some stupid self-destructive gesture. It’s not the stopping we want, it’s the feeling of putting a bullet in its head.
But that’s the sort of pointless thing we all know is stupid even as we say it.
Still, I understand. I’ve had moments. I’ve twice taken my blog down in rage and frustration, moved it all aside, a mental ‘to be deleted’ tag on the files. One ‘rm blog/*‘ command from nuking the files, one click of the ‘delete this blog’ button. I know I won’t do it, I’ve deleted work before and always, always regretted it. But there’s that moment, like a bridge jumper thinking I could, but today I won’t.
There’s empty beauty in pointless gestures. Silent sorrow in empty boats.