Time is an endless river that swallows us whole, dragging us down with it into oblivion. Sometimes its course is a short straight line, others a winding circuitous journey through harsh rugged terrain. Others yet, it goes underground, seemingly disappearing forever. Sometimes it surfaces again. Not always. It’s the same with blogs like this one. Time has been such a rare commodity, life’s interests so varied that one never seems to find the right moment, the right post, the right idea, to come back to it. And so it lies dormant, seemingly dead, the river never resurfacing again.
Until one braves the harshness of time and comes back to it, hoping to find it yet free of the ravages of mould and decay. Beautifull in its stilness, still plyant and suple, although pale for the recent lack of sun and warmth.
It’s been almost three years, and one still remembers how alive it was before – but it wasn’t, really, it never was… is was just a game. Full of promises and ideas, but always a second thought. But not to my mind. Not to me. It reminds me of joyfull hours spent with wonderfull films, books, and other blogs. Strange images and outrageous scenes.
But, just like Dr. Hichcock, it was I who killed beauty. True, it wasn’t something violent and bloody like a staking through the heart, the wood, herdenned by fire, puncturing the soft warm breast of a defenseless sleeping victim.
No, no, nothing like that. It was through sheer neglect of a willing partner. Too much of that, not enough of the attention she needed. In my defense, I should say it was due to some eagerness to go beyond the limits, to fill myself with too much of its promises. Erotic thrillers, damsels in distress, the defilement of innocence…
No, it was not something violent, it was not murderous in intent. But it happened. However, just like Dr. Hichcock’s Margaretta, maybe the blog is not dead yet. Maybe it is just dormant. Maybe it can be brought back to life if I can shock it with the spark it needs.
That’s something to be tried, for sure.
And so, here I am, not like a slayer, but like a vampire, stalking the sleeping victim in a mirror image of the dreaded necrophiliac I could very well be.
Sure, there’s something of parodic in this ritual. The undead, not quite alive, approach the as yet living, intent on turning them into something else. There’s something of religious in there, and obviously something sexual. The hands of the vampire are drawn to the heaving breasts of its victim as if by undying instinct, as dead moths trying to cling to the living warmth of the flesh.
There’s something of obscene in it, as well, of corrupting, as sometimes the victim is fooled into willingness. She welcomes that embrace most foul, allows herself to be swept through the door that separates being from eternal non-being. At least when you’re dead, you leave something behind…like a blog.
Can it still be revived? Can it be kept alive?
Only time will tell…
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