Of course even the most arrant poster would make up such a small data footprint amongst the hundred million or so users that it could likely be years before the random sectors containing the bytes of my life would be overwritten.
Which is why we do it, I guess. In some ways these words will live on long after me.... But not because I'm special. I'm not.
There is a blog on LJ that was last updated September 10, 2001. The owner would die in the towers as they fell. Yet despite the clearly worded term of service that blogs not updated in 6 months were subject to deletion, it's still here, as is the blog of a woman I knew who died of complications of pneumonia in 2005.
As I sit here pondering my fate... Is the new medication making any difference at all? Will it make a difference before I lose everything I love, everything I care about... I take small solace in the fact that my words could reach across time, perhaps finally to be read. A bizarre antithesis of the million monkeys at a million keyboards eventually hammering out Hamlet, instead an infinite number of eyes will mean someone will finally understand ME.
Very. Small. Solace.
Edited to add:
Disabling comments. I don't want consolation. I'm tear-assing down that slippery slope and don't need more people screaming at me how love can save me if only I let them in. For once in my life I don't want to be a wishy washy little fuck.