Out of Memory

There are no citizens of the United States now alive who remember the original Civil war, and the carnage and death it brought to our country. There are no people living who listened to Abraham Lincoln say the following:

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate-we can not consecrate-we can not hallow-this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion-that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom-and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.

Who will make any future speeches so moving and so pertinent as this one.

Pixels do not a friend make

A friendship on these pages does not equal a friendship in real life. Pixels are not touches, not words heard by the ears, not eyes meeting in conversation, Love, or sorrow.

There is no sound to this, no inflections or subtle textures such as we have in real conversation. These squiggles contain no warm red blood running through their flat, black on white presence on this page.

I wouldn’t trade ten thousand words written here, for five minutes and a cup of coffee with any of you.

We’ve got to find a stopping point for all this “terminal” nonsense, and abstract scripted anger that the creators of these mediums have dropped us into.

I’m going to start to refuse to let the unreal continue to rule the real world every chance I get. Think about it yourself. We are spending way too much time letting other people with bad intent create our idealism and opinions for us.