Let’s start this on a positive note by ranting about how either the recent Chrome update or the recent Bleachbit update, which I ran afterwards on temporary files, totally nuked the contents of my Writespace Chrome extension – the ilk of which apparently also being sunsetted by the big G this year, but I digress; containing words that are now gone forever. So much for lamenting the lack of ephemerality.

(Word soup Too Soupy Didn’t Read: Writespace has words. Chrome and Bleachbit got updated. Words gone. Do not know which of the two the culprit was. Also, sidenote: Chrome extensions like Writespace will be unsupported by Google in 2020. Also, another sidenote: ranting about this is hypocritical considering the writer was ranting about lack of ephemerality on earlier posts.)

Now that’s out of the way, I don’t know whether I should agree or disagree with what I wrote yesterday. That seems to be what I’ve been doing this whole time, I just noticed.

It’s as if one views oneself objectively as a meaningless collection of information randomly caused by nature to form, somehow gathering mass and thus attracting more compatible information to that which has come before, and if one looks at oneself and recognizes one’s existence as such, this collection of information is naturally bequeathed with value, as the self, and for that which is capable of considering value, that is also able to decide which is meaningful or not.

Ha! How about that for taking a stab at the meaning of meaning? Although pretty sure tomorrow I would read that previous paragraph and laugh at how stupid it is. Today, I would rather cherish having another stab at clawing against the surface of oneself with words, knowing full well that getting to do this is a privilege not afforded to people possibly bathing in dust this week.

Enough for today.