By: Chris Cummins
Staff Writer

Another blog day has come and passed. As Friday comes I log on my computer, wait patiently as my own personal rectangle of light slowly gains lucence and form, and as the darting pools of glow stretch and cross the room, shedding light on dark corners. What, I ask myself as I write, is this for? The sharp crack of keys give punctuation to my thoughts, summoning them into existence with a crackle of plastic. Does it matter, does anyone actually read it? Will the idea of a blog actually have any meaning as the years pass into history? The computer dims. As the twenty first century dawns, in all it’s terrible, glorious technological splendor, will writing even matter?

As I wonder, as my hands fly across these well worn keys, W, E, L, L, thoughts ignored through practice splay themselves across my consciousness, forcing me to reconsider. S, O. My fingers pause, my thoughts too loud for them to hear, and rest. The annoyance of a blinking cursor stares up at me, a creator of thought and sentence, hungry for more. H, O, W. Word, in all its polish and neatly sliced categories of help and organization, cannot guide my hand into the business of creation, it seems. W, H, Y? I laugh, a rueful break of silence into a room not completely accustomed to it, and the words seem to spew, to jump, to leap into existence. W, R, I, T, E.