right about now

Some of us are cursed with the compulsion to look back and reflect. On my 57th birthday, marked by the deadening silence and absence of forgetful friends, my particular brand of compulsion took on an alarming layer of obsession and panic. The last, almost, half a century seemed marked by a sombre nothingness. A straight line along the chart of life that measured no blips above zero. One would have been forgiven for doubting if I even registered a pulse.

Surely that cannot be true. Would my headstone really mark nothing beyond the date of my birth and death? Will anyone even remember to organise me a send off (would anyone come), much less an actual headstone? Does anyone even remember that I exist? The persistent mental image of me, lying dead on my kitchen floor, in my pyjamas, surrounded by cats I don't own, only discovered after the neighbours could no longer stomach the stench, was, I confess, a little unsettling.

As I stood in this increasingly icy edge of a Prufrock-esque sea, I had a moment of alarming clarity: A life lived is a life lived online.

In an age where anyone - however weak their grasp of spelling and grammar, however ill-advised their point-of-view, however illogical their logic, however dull their observations, however inane their comments, can register a blog and call themselves writers or journalists - I've decided I'm going to start, before my well completely dries up, to join the ranks of these anyones, and start becoming someone. We live in a time when it has become necessary to post, pin and tweet our way out of inconsequentiality. Your life isn't real if you have no-one commenting on it online, and no followers. When did having strangers follow you become the benchmark of a successful life? But hey, since I am the one lying on the kitchen floor, in my pyjamas, surrounded by cats, I should get off my high horse, get onboard, run those sentences and mix metaphor my way to a brand-spanking, sparkly, new final act.

So this is my experiment: over the next 12 months, I will observe, comment, whinge, moan, celebrate, relate and recommend my way into the hearts (or curiosity) of strangers, hopefully many of them, like, 20. Let's not be too cocky. Come January 16, 2025 let's see if living online gets me off the kitchen floor.