Rites of Passage

So much for the intrinsic value of handwritten thoughts in an unlined leatherbound sketchbook. I fear that this medium has become such a juggernaut that not even the snobbish elite can avoid it. I suppose it's all a part of Thomas Friedman's flattening process. These words are intended to be for my own outlet and sanity, failed attempts at artistry and creativity, and meek voice amplified by the echoing emptiness that is cyberspace. To date, I haven't informed anyone of this endeavor, and I plan to withold this information for as long as possible. In that sense, I guess I hope someone comes across this record of humanity, for although I'm content to write for myself, I suppose I'd like to create something autonomous for the anonymous. So now, the pages of the Moleskine diary may absorb ink less often, but perhaps their lack of use will deem them significance compared to the olla podrida of voices in this network. Either way, I have begun, and as the proverb goes, well begun is half done. But thanks to Zeno, I guess I'll never quite reach the end. That comforts me.