Seven years (#257)

For approaching a third of my time on this earth, I have been blogging about my projects, my findings, my poetry, my sys­tems. Looking back on it, reminiscing in distaste about the humble beginnings of graphically oriented slow snake scripting to dubious groking of Unix and numerics, meandering through games nei­ther played nor parodied and taking my first swings at golfing. Dabbling in pixel painting, moving away from imprisoned evaluating. Graduating. Experiencing symbolicism, doubting the physicist’s mod­el’s realism. Writ­ing compilers, construeing languages, cal­cu­lat­ing Laplacians. Discovering sequences and trails of old — in thought and *ware. Hopping by the GNUs of new, making sense of the legacy that is Berners-Lee’s. Wrestling with what once was freedom. Writ­ing a Bachelor’s thesis. Tasting concurrency, rediscovering sim­plic­i­ty. Loathing light in captured form. Lonely for the depths are known.

Looking back, I am unsure if it was worth it. I sometimes dream to have been born a Unix pioneer, not hindered by the mischief caused by modern datum’s drought for thought. Yet then again — romantically —, glorifying the past immensely, doubt creeps in if in all honesty, life’s discretization is after all not robbery. For should I not be content pondering what is constructed and then wondering why I am yearning for the improbable that is ac­cep­tance of the unloggable?

I detest conducted com­put­ing. I believe in free soft­ware. I think open source is an unjust blanket. I wish to seek asylum in the analogue. I am writ­ing this on my Thinkpad X250 run­ning proprietary WiFi drivers in an editor whose benevolent li­cense I despise. The birds are tweeting.