A long time ago I remember reading a story. I think it was by Ray Bradbury. It feels like something he would have written. The government of Earth had destroyed nearly all of the works of fantasy and fiction. The ghosts of the authors remained though, on Mars as long as one copy of their work remained or one person remembered the words.
The internet is like that. No one ever really dies if they survived into the late 90s or so or if they left media behind. The interview that I was supposed to have with Tim Leary before the cancer overtook him seems still possible. His web site still remains long after his ashes waltzed into space with those of Gene Roddenberry. Robert Anton Wilson’s site is there too. Which is as it should be.
That sort of thing can ambush you emotionally. You go merrily scrolling down the long list of bookmarks looking for a page you need but have forgotten and there it is: The blog of your friend that died a year ago. The loss and regret all comes back like a cold draft from the attic of your mind. It hurts, but you can’t delete the bookmark. that would be a little like him dying all over again…and so it waits there to ambush you again another year.
Maybe that’s why we throw these words out into the aether, so that we will live on in that far lesser fame like those ghosts on Mars.
Be seeing you.
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