A problem with being a former bookstore employee is that I constantly will have titles of books I’ve never read, bouncing around in my brain. Such as the above, which is a riff on Milan Kundera’s novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
I can’t even claim that my title has all that much to do with Milan’s book. Except, you know, for themes of a life of no consequence, and the stark terror realizing that might provide. But who doesn’t worry about stuff like that?
The web keeps streamlining itself, with web-speak and constantly update-able pages. Reading an entire page of text seems onerous, and has people clicking the next link, ASAP. And blogging demands new content, before you get left in the dust by more voracious linkers.
I’ll toss around multiple ideas of which to blog about, and then not have the time to develop them, or simply forget. But there’s always that pressure to produce, even if it’s for an admittedly small audience. (Hello!) With the net full of blogs, Wikipedia pages, chat rooms, forums, and a host of other information, it seems pretty minuscule to even add a drop to that ocean…
But then there is the unbearable demand to share, to muse aloud. Inside that, I can see the addiction to this public airing of my psychic laundry. It lets you feel, just for a moment, like you weren’t nearly as inconsequential as you were a minute ago. And it has, in the very least, got me writing, which is good… would that be a nihilist’s silver lining?
I feel like a smiling Samuel Beckett, which is hard to picture, if you think about it. (If you don’t know his face, google him or go check out his area on the Modern Word website. You’ll see what I mean.)