Today my teacher remarked on the self-plight of blogs. They are, he claimed, nothing more than dim cries for attention, for someone, anyone, to know that we exist. ("I'm here! I'm here!") There was a fair share of les bloggers in the room at the time, and a part of me is curious to know what they were thinking, listening to these words.
Certainly some blogs are nothing more than doldrum expirations of time. Clicking the "next" button on the toolbar at the top of my page is a fairly strong reassurance of this fact because usually I see five consecutive pages of Spanish advertising...cool.
Yet I feel like the ones I read are not meant as evidence, as proofs of existence. I am aware of the writers, keenly alert to them when I see them in school or on the street or here or there or both. Sometimes--and I'm sure this sounds, in some degree, lame--sometimes the best part of my day is sitting down and placing myself beside these people, reading what they have to say, absorbing their thoughts, thoughts which are pure and raw and beautiful. Their words have meaning, if not to everyone then at the very least to me.
Sometimes I secretly hope that there is a person who sits down at night ready to catch a glimpse of my mind.