Blog is Dead

Well, I have nothing to write, and neither do most of my friends, it seems (with Blakewell ever the singular, ever the stalwart, exception). So I've modified--ever so slightly--a little story from a guy I know. I'm basically just amusing myself here, but maybe you'll enjoy this as well...

Have you not heard of that madman who, with lit lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the nearest Starbucks, and cried incessantly, "I seek Blog! I seek Blog!" Those who did not believe in Blog were sitting around just then, drinking their mochas, provoked to great laughter. "Why, did he get lost?" said one. "Did he lose his way like a child? " said another. "Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? Or emigrated?" Thus they yelled and laughed. The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his glances.

"Whither is Blog?!" he cried. "I shall tell you. We have killed him—you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how have we done this? How were we able to drink up the sea? With whose sponge have we blotted out the sky? What did we do when we unchained the earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving now? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there any up or down left? Are we not straying as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night and more night coming on all the while? Must not lanterns be lit in the morning? Do we not hear anything yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying Blog? Do we not smell anything yet of Blog’s decomposition? Blogs too decompose. Blog is dead. Blog remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we, the murderers of all murderers, comfort ourselves? What was most cutting-edge and self-indulgent of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our pencil-pushing hands. Who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must not we ourselves become Blogs simply to seem worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever will be born after us—for the sake of this deed he will be part of a higher history than all history hithertoo."

Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they too were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground; it broke and went out. "I come too early," he said then; "my time has not come yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering—it has not yet reached the ears of man. Lightning and thunder require time, the light of the stars requires time, deeds require time even after they are done, before they can be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars—and yet they have done it themselves."

Maybe my prediction will be more accurate than Friedrich's.