It is two months to the date when I begun writing on this weblog, and that marks a very special day since here at Driver 8 we celebrate such occasions with a festivity of whining. Not whining at everything and everyone, though, just at the very sorry state of the "work" (if we still care to call it that) produced here. I mean, "Referral briefs (not 'underpants')?" What was I thinking?

I guess I know what I was thinking, at least on that specific case, but that may be better left for another time. What I'd really like to complain of to myself is what the hell am I doing on this weblog in general. Because, really, I no longer know. For sure.

OK, maybe I have an inkling of what's going on here. I mean, just last month this weblog's purpose was "driving the train of thought," but since then it has become "writing for robots." In other words, I'm doing it for the search engines.

I think I've been down that path before. It'd be better to move further down the line.

And what should I find following this trail, but that it leads to the author himself? If it's dissatisfaction I feel, it is not brought forth by the audience I'm writing for, but by the person behind the keyboard. You see, I don't think I have really figured him out. Though I get off on my writing, I don't know if I have said anything at all, whether I've gained a better comprehension of what goes through my head as it finds its way to the keyboard and, finally, to the display. All I can see is a certain lack in the text, an absence of sorts.

A long time ago, I was in a group session doing a guided exercise where the instructor asked us to close our eyes and imagine before us a presence we couldn't see but simply perceive. This presence, he explained, was making us afraid. He then aksed us to visualize and interact with it. What I saw was a large, oblong box. A trunk of sorts. I didn't do anything but watch it. I never even opened it. When the exercise ended, the instructor explained that what we saw was ourselves.

Well, since then, I've been returning to that box here. And I may have finally opened it. And all I found was a void. Like Pandora's box but instead of unleashing all sort of demons it has let loose something worse: a hungry maw of emptiness.

These words, empty gestures from a hollow face.