They—the author—are begging to be heard.
Everyone wants to be heard, to be listened to and, more importantly, to matter. Just look at the amount of Blogs and Facebooks and Virbs and Tweets and forums for everything and anything imaginable, all packed with countless individuals clamoring to be noticed, their soapboxes individualized with a million tags and bigger pictures and brighter colors and professional layouts they’ve either paid for, begged, borrowed or outright stolen. A mind-blowing forest of soapboxes, each carved with one common theme: “I was here.”
It’s actually frightening, in a weird sort of way. All of these people ‘speaking’ and very few 'listening' because everyone is ‘speaking.’ It’s like one of those nightmares where one screams without sound. Like if a bazillion people yell at the same time, will anybody hear?
It’s also sad, too, and that makes my inner social worker worry for them, knowing that few out of the bazillion will ever be read—could ever be read—thrilled with their own soapboxes and their dream (and some, their delusion) of grandeur. Their words might be skimmed in passing, yes, but will leave no permanent mark; the fortunate having their pages read and forgotten in a moment or an hour or a day or a year as their words give way to others words, the unfortunate never being read at all, drowned out by the many, and in having been missed perhaps missing the opportunity to impact someone’s life or even (Dare I say it?) change mankind’s future.
I was here,