I might rewrite my blog as a novel someday, but a blog is not a novel, and a novel is not a life.
Blogs and lives shift, change, evolve. They are imperfect and finite aspirations. A novel, in contrast, is an aspiration for an unattainable, immortal, and infinite perfection. Its perfection is unattainable because a novel’s immortal and infinite words are forever after read by imperfect and finite aspirations.
It may seem sometimes like we are made in the image of our words, but it is we who remake words in our image. We make a mirror of every text and see therein only our imperfect and finite aspirations. With each new reading, we sacrifice once more and again the word for our sins.
Once more and again, an end and a beginning. Happy Birthday, blog. Happy Birthday.