Ages ago I built websites. I posted my poetry. I ranted and raved to myself and then vomited it up onto the cyberspace virtual somethingorother. Then I told stories. Once upon a time, I started a blog. Another time ago, I had several blogs. They weren't blogs that probably anyone read, and they had zero impact factor. And I didn't care about the impact factor. I didn't care about people reading my blogs (aside from standard narcissistic vanity). I just wrote. I kept blogs on OpenDiary and LiveJournal. I had blogs tucked away within WordPress and Blogger. I posted poems and streams of consciousness to DeviantArt. I shared my words on Facebook and MySpace and other places I've long forgotten about. Then I went silent. The silence stretched onward. It became an unending lack of writing that obliterated the sense of ability to write. I unwrote my sense of self with a sense of ambiguous nothingness. I did not like it. It was an internal prison of my own devices and own devis...
Streams of Consciousness from a Skeptical Stoic