Name ThisTune - An Explanation

In the six years that I have kept this online journal I have discussed everything from world events to local attractions, personal triumphs and dismal failures. I have spoken of philosophy and religion, interjected humor and the absurd, and even revealed intimate frustrations that have served as the catalyst for more entries than is likely prudent. In all that time I have never censored myself or refrained from delving into the specific troubles that I felt justifiably deserved an outlet. My reasons for doing so are as varied as they are uncertain. Some days I want to share an idea I have been pondering for some time, other times I seek a sympathetic ear to vent my frustrations. Some entries simply write themselves as my fingers furtively glide across the keyboard, uncertain of their next destination but trusting the latent ideas that stem from my subconscious to guide them all the same. It is with this approach that I have managed to craft some fairly revealing insights into my own psyche that have occasionally (albeit inadvertently) caused trouble. Such was the case just a few entries ago in a post entitled “Name ThisTune” when, for the first time, I decided to delete an entry that I had posted somewhat on a whim. It was an entry whose motivations were unclear, but one in which the impending consequences were anything but. In one instant I managed to hurt someone whom I care about very deeply. She did not deserve or cause such indiscretions on my part and for that momentary lapse in judgment I am truly sorry.

It is with that disclaimer that I have chosen to repost the original entry for reasons that I will now expound upon. The actual reason why I have never deleted any post or censored myself is found in the incentive of detailing the events of my life in the first place. Someday I am going to be an old man whose only joy lies in the remembrance of past events and the occasional emotional elation that such memories elicit. I am going to spend my days reflecting on all the previous ones and wondering what impact my life truly had. Many men find that their memories fade or reconfigure over the passing years until one day when they seek to tarry over the days of their lives such memories only offer fleeting glimpses of highlights and harangues. So they claw at scraps of ancient recollections in an attempt to remember who they once were and hope someone, anyone will listen lest the memory of who they are fades away with each generation’s passing. I cannot be that man. I decided a long time ago to keep a record of my life so that even if no one else knew him, I could always look back and remember the man I once was. Despite its inherent futility and possible blights of hubris, I simply don’t want to be forgotten.

We all fade away. Some people manage to slow time’s eraser to a crawl, but none can halt its sinister task completely. If I am to remain true to my past, however, I must be able to record it accurately. I cannot remove the painful parts when they form a unique part of the tapestry of life that is as essential as any triumph. To do otherwise is a death of sorts. To do otherwise is to be forgotten.