Alone but Alive

Writing is a ritualistic act to smoke out old selves that, left unsought, wisp formless into the stratosphere.  From this cultivation of selves we must stage a mutiny on the everyday and redact every last contact made with the networked collective formerly known by name.  It may be as sad and tragic as they say, but so long as we resist how things appear we may safely stowaway in our ignorance.  Better to befriend ourselves and keep those fires burning than grow cold and friendless in the self-congratulating world we got going.  Somewhere skipped a track, even if people deny it, even if it seems we are saying more than ever, that the celebration of self has never been this raucous. We will die in our dreams, boots pressed firmly to the ground, die terrified of the mistakes we made while typing...

if we don't talk to ourselves, carry the rumor of our hearts, walk stubbornly back and start over, alone but alive, trudging defiantly to the place where we left off.