The path in front of me is new and puzzling. The signposts are not there. How can one proceed? I immediately clutch at the straws of known genres (known and familiar to me). But I seem to clutch at thin air. Must one walk here, or crawl, and if walking, should one walk upright, languidly, hurriedly, purposefully, but to what purpose? Then, the medium itself, a fibre-optic, virtual, and hence, immaterial medium. Am i to walk on air, or cyber-space? After all, the medium must preclude some generic conventions? But Derrida...derrida says, the moment we venture to embrace genre, we are already inviting death, the end of things.
Is Blogging, therefore, a kind of exhaustion, or the logical next step to a Borgesian meta-fiction? The new Bloggerature of exhaustion?
The precipice is uncannily mesemrising.