Where is this blog?
Is what I write in my mind? In my fingers? On my screen?
Where does my writing go when I press the "publish" button? I can see it on my computer, but I know that's just a portal.
Where do my words live?
How do they make contact with your gaze? Do they live inside your memory, even for a short while? How do they bear on what you do, say, feel?
Where are you?
Where do your words live?
Why do I rush to my computer to read them? What is it about this portal that draws me in, compels me to witness your photos, your art, your words, your heart?
Why is there the relentless need to know, continually know, what you have said? What you think about what I have said? What I could say about what you think about what I have said? How you might respond to what I could say about what you think about what I have said? And so on?
Where does this relentless need for connection (described so beautifully by Andrea Scher here) come from?
What does the ether look, smell, taste, sound, feel like?
Is it like white noise? Is it like crazy code, all neon green against a void of black, as popular culture would suggest? Does it sound like those tiny metal chimes that you can run your finger along to make a sound reminiscent of the wind or sunshine or the dawn or a fairy's wings flapping?
Is it like being dead?
Is that why the fear of disconnection -- literal and metaphorical -- is so frightening?
And on a slightly tangential note: am I the only one who finds science programs about the vastness of our solar system but its minuscule status in the universe terrifyingly overwhelming?