Once upon a time people used to write letters on pieces of paper. Missives describing their lives to people who were far away. Historians can go through such manuscripts gleaning information as to how we used to live. Certainly people write far fewer letters nowadays, so what will future historians use to research our lifetimes?
One way I suspect will be reading blogs. A vast number of people are writing on a huge range of topics (not just kinky ones) and that information will certainly provide reference material for the future.
Given that huge wealth of reading material, I have every expectation that this blog will one day end up on the cutting room floor. I have no illusions as to the quality of my writing; the purpose of this blog is to give me an outlet for my kinky side and random musings such as this and hopefully to help me to communicate with similar people. Undying prose it is not.
Given that these words will quickly be forgotten what will I leave to mark my presence upon the earth? I truly cannot think of anything significant I have ever done. I have won no prizes, created nothing of value, added nothing to the sum of human knowledge. My name is inscribed in no tablets of stone. While I may undertake any number of things to fill the years remaining to me, I will never be famed for any of them.
Any obituary I have will be short indeed, describing me purely in terms of my relationships: daughter, wife, lover. That is all I am. A very long time ago someone ‘gave’ me this poem. I wonder now just how much they saw me here.
When You Are Old and Grey
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
by W. B. Yeats