It begins

I am a strange sort. I've been a secret weblogger for almost a year. I created a weblog and then launched it into absolute anonymity. No one ever read it. It was fun to think that my secrets were available to anyone who had a will to look; like kissing in public for the first time, there was no need for reservation or remorse, and it was a joyful affirmation of my reality: the joy of authenticity. And I loved that freedom, but attendant to my joy was a melancholy, a sadness that realized that the freedom to say anything is intimately related to the fact that no one cared; no one ever read my words. They fell like raindrops into a well of noise and disappeared without a ripple. They made no difference to anyone. It was not so bad, I suppose. It would not make any difference, except that this, which vanishes as if it was never spoken, is my life. There is no point to living it in private.

Giftshop wisdom entreats us to sing though no one listens, and dance though no one dance with you. I will not. Instead, I sing, and beg others to listen. I dance, with the dream of someone to turn with me, lean close, and follow my steps. This is my hope. This is why I cast these words into the void. Not for the sake of speaking, but for the sake of being heard, thence to be understood. How could this happen? But I hope.