OF CABBAGES AND KINGS

This blog is four years old. That feels weird - 1,141 posts span back across that time, chronicling little snapshots of my life. That's more chapters than there are in the Bible, though infinitely less wise or helpful, I propose.

Little snapshots. I get down a lot, you probably noticed. I also seem to have my moments. The snapshots are certainly varied.

Tonight, a friend reminded me about some of the songs I used to write. I looked vaguely out of the window at the cars sweeping by.

"I guess they're all a bit dated now," I said, wistfully, referring to the songs. It's a thought that's occurred to me before - my style is almost certainly old-fashioned, much like the rest of me. I can't seem to do simple refrains that soar over swelling pads and off-beat rhythms. I'm still in cheesy melody, deep-lyric town, and it's all very noughties. I have not evolved.

Even in the last four years, the social media explosion has fragmented us into individuality, all desperately trying to brand ourselves with an edge, with a persona that is uniquely us. There doesn't seem to be room for my obvious or pompously expressed thoughts. It's becoming harder to be gracefully deep.

But as I said, I also do have my moments. And I hope that I still somehow hit that window between the obvious and the pompous. As you know, this was always supposed to be a triangle of not too serious, not too whimsical, and not too self-absorbed, just like my favourite nonsense poetry. Yes, I can do better at that last one.

I never set an end goal for the blog either. I have visions of me perishing one day in my old age, having just written a silly post about jet packs or house robots or something, and that being the first thing that gets read by people trying to figure out what kind of person I was from my thousands of posts. There's no way, even now, that one person could read them all.

Or maybe, if I moved to another country, or got married, or went to jail or something, then that would be the end of it? Who knows. For now, as for the past four years, it's at least a bit of a therapy for me.

As always then, it is worth remembering that these things are only snapshots. They paint a picture, and you can work all that out for yourself, but they are still only snapshots - images of me at my best, and frequently, my worst, trying to be honest, open, funny and smart.

I might give that off-beat rhythm thing a go. Maybe I'll crack it. Or maybe, it simply doesn't matter.