The Bloggings of a Man

There is a man. There are many of them, really, but this blog is about the man. The man is a normal man: mid-twenties, white, likes music, tries to read some but often falls asleep. He has always wanted to make a difference in the world, but then again, who doesn't?

Most days are the same. Get up early to go to work. The man works with children and, until today, has never really thought about what the difference is between working with different age groups. If one works with children he is helping the future to grow. His hard work and dedication is hopefully understood by the younguns and they grow to become productive members of society as adults, or even do great things with their lives. If he works with adults, his efforts are less noticed. It seems, to him, that working with adults (retail, food service, some sort of goods production or other service) is more mundane. Yes, it is necessary for these jobs to be carried out to sustain - for lack of a better word - everything, but it just seems so hollow. If one works with the elderly it is less of an investment in the future but a thank you for the past. The elderly have done great things, but humans in their selfish ways, are often hasty to brush them under the rug of the retirement "living community" and forget about them. The man ponders this and is satisfied with his decision to invest in the future.

It is odd then that the man feels so alone. He is surrounded by people all the time, but that doesn't fill that void that aches deep from within him. He goes home at night to his empty apartment, puts something in the microwave (leftovers or frozen somethings) and sits in front of a screen. He knows that man killed God. The proof is the internet. God no longer has the whole world in his hands, we have it at our fingertips. Despite the man's realization of all the power and knowledge beckoning to him like the fabled forbidden fruit he mindlessly rummages through the garbage dump of online personals databases. Pictures of past lovers, long lost friends; he finds anecdotes and quips about the day-to-day happenings of all these people he once knew. But he always finds his way back to one. Perhaps because he likes the torment of knowing every little detail of this person's life, a life that once was a part of his, but now he can find no evidence that he ever existed in her world.

He curses life and blames woman for his pain.

And yet, he writes his thoughts, his feelings, his inner secrets on this world wide web; millions of people have access to these deep dark places of his soul. The man could never express these feelings to another human being and yet he opens himself up to the entire world. He doesn't mind, however, he knows the vast majority will never stumble upon his tiny insignificant musings. Only one person he knows even reads what he writes but that is enough. He might reach millions someday, or through the course of his lifetime of work with others. That is insignificant. If he can reach just that one reader whom he truely loves then he has experienced success.

He sets his alarm, picks up the book he has been meaning to read, and falls asleep. Tomorrow is another day.