That would be an existential matter

Right, this blog is marked for closure. Whilst I’m sure this will devastate the huge readership I have (all three of you) this shall be the last post made. It’s been running for a few years and it’s reached a natural end. I can’t think of another thing to say or write about work or life in the context of this blog without repeating myself endlessly. So point made, I’m done.

It’s been an interesting journey. There’s been some fantastic debates (read: arguments) on here, I’ve been on the receiving end of a full on hate campaign from some mystery idiot, one of the comment sections has been hijacked and turned into some hate forum for a long past teacher (this was never my intention or wish) and I’ve actually managed to arrange my thoughts enough to give this blog a purpose and direction. Perhaps.

In retrospect, as self-conscious as I felt having this blog, I’m glad I did it. Blogging doesn’t have to be an egotistical journey, it can be a great outlet for your emotions, thoughts and frustrations. It’s also a creative process, something that’s easy to shy away from but can ultimately be very satisfying.

So that’s that. I’d like this blog to stay here for a while at least, maybe locked down or something. Can this even be done? Time to work that out. I’m bizarrely proud of some of it, and a little ashamed at other parts (especially the photo in the banner – still might change that). I have two new blogs in the pipeline that I’m currently building in my basement, almost ready to unleash on the web in a frenzy of apathy and disinterest; then I can pour my opinionated shite onto the internet once again. Mwhahaha. Said blogs may or may not make an appearance on Asparagine’s infamous Feed Me site. Bet you’re on the edge of your friggin’ seat.

So to end fittingly, here’s an excellent poem (or a bit of prose or whatever) from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s ‘Wind, Sand and Stars’ to sum up exactly what I was trying to say for about the last 18 months. Toodlepip.

Old bureaucrat, my companion here present, no man ever opened up an escape route for you, and you are not to blame. You built peace for yourself by blocking up every chink of light, as termites do. You rolled yourself into your ball of bourgeois security, your routines, the stifling rituals of your provincial existence; you built your humble rampart against winds, tides and stars. You have no wish to ponder great questions; you had enough trouble suppressing awareness of your human condition. You do not dwell on a wandering planet, you ask yourself no unanswerable questions;… No man ever grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time. Now the clay that formed you has dried and hardened, and no man could now awaken in you the dormant musician, the poet or the astronomer who perhaps once dwelt within you.