It’s been a year. We’ve grown. We’ve made mistakes. I have written to you, my blog, for exactly 365 days. I guess all I can say is we’re old farts now.
It’s been nice. We’ve had a relatively symbiotic relationship, although in truth, you really haven’t said anything at all to me. It’s been a relatively one-sided encounter. I don’t mind it though because at least I know that at the end of the day and the inevitable crawl into the morning, when I’m staring into a blank screen hoping for inspiration, you’ll be there, you’ll be waiting – no matter what.
Despite my failures, you give me the feeling I could do anything in the world. You listen to my laments. You find it endearing rather than annoying that I write poetry. You don’t get mad at me. Most importantly, you sparked a flame of creative passion where I feel compelled, rather than forced, to write. After some one hundred thousand words, I just hope you don’t regret it now.
Now I agree it might be weird talking to my blog – my own creation – as a person. But over the year that we have spent together, I have realized something: this blog is as much as a human as I am because it has become part of me entirely. Each week, I have given a bit of myself. I opened up. I expressed opinions both trivial and grand. What I liked, I lauded with the jubilation of a fanatic; what I disliked, I condemned with the fulminations of a god. Through the words I chose, sometimes ineptly and sometimes with great care, I learned who was I: a sometimes insecure, self-deprecating, immature boy who has often run away from others and who has forgotten much of that which has shaped him.
That might be a bit pessimistic. But it is true insofar as this blog has become both a way to remember and a way to shape me. It is Kacper Niburski just as much as I am.
To that end, this blog is art. It is my sculpture. Like all work then, it is open to interpretations the author did not intend. Some people enjoyed what I wrote. Others didn’t. When looking back on it all, leafing through the tomes that I have written, my interpretation tells me I am different from who I thought I was, who I tried to be.
Each word is a manifestation of myself. Each character is a reflection of my personality. The words I used allow me to go everywhere without moving anything but my heart.
In the end, this blog is my microcosm. Everyone I have ever loved, everyone I have known, everyone I have ever heard of has flowed through here. The aggregate of my joy and suffering, thousands of days wasted and forgotten, every defining moment in my life, all ideologies and fanaticism, all ruminations and actions, my mother’s care and my father’s humour, my sister’s influence and my brother’s shared experiences, the millions of others I have had the honour of meeting, and everything I can never, shouldn’t have, and always wish to remember is immortalized in nothing more than a few hundred words here and there.
As a whole, it means nothing. It is but electronic ink on an otherwise blank page. But anything means nothing when one realizes that the earth is insignificant and the people on it even less so. The wars we wage will be forgotten; the happiness we cherish is ephemeral. Our greatest triumphs will last as long as we will. Think of everything that has been known from our imagined self-importance to our self-destructive ways that suggest otherwise. It is no more momentous than the words I use now. All of it means nothing without humanity, and in the end, humanity means nothing at all.
But still, I write to you, blog. Maybe it’s a defense against the Universe. Maybe as a salute to it. I’m not sure. I know, though, that I will not last. My skin will sag. My hands will be ruined by arthritis. I’ll probably get cancer. The sentences that I had worried over, the words I planned so carefully will rot on some page in some book. Others will fade away elsewhere. As Kurt Vonnegut says, “So it goes” – and so it always will.
Yet I can’t help but look back at everything we’ve written about – our loves, our father, our mother, our brother, our sister, our family, our lives, our school, our beards, our stories, our imaginations, our hopes, our failures – and be inspired. Not because the words we wrote. They are as fickle as the wind. But because we did it against the gravity of the Universe and our insignificance to it. Against our self-doubt and self-consciousness. Against critics who said we could never. And most of all, against ourselves.
I am not sure what the future will bring. I am not sure what I will write. But what will happen is that every week, I’ll appreciate the small miracle of a world where I can be myself in all my forms.
What that means, I hope I can figure out next year. Until then, blog, just be yourself. Or myself. Or whatever.