#694
First Blog post 1st Nov 2005. (The photo was taken at Monsanto, Bellary site.. Time flies!).
Dear readers—scattered as you are across time zones, from the bustling streets of Mumbai to the quiet cafes of Seattle, or wherever this digital whisper finds you—it's hard to believe, but this week marks 20 years since I hit "publish" on my very first post. November 1st, 2005. I remember it like it was etched in the glow of my old CRT monitor: out of sheer curiosity, fueled by a restless itch to capture the chaos in my head, I birthed Karthikkaraikudy. No grand plan, no viral ambitions—just a blank canvas in the wild, uncharted blogosphere. Fast-forward to today, and here we are at post number 694. Not a staggering count, perhaps, but each one a fragment of my soul, spilled without fear or favor. In a world that screams for likes and shares, blogging has been my quiet rebellion: a space to think deeply, to wrestle with emotions until they loosen their grip, and to exhale into the void. It's catharsis wrapped in keystrokes, leaving me lighter, more at peace. If you've ever poured your heart into words and watched them settle like autumn leaves, you know that rare, bone-deep relaxation it brings.
Oh, how the landscape has shifted since those early days. Back then, the internet felt like a frontier—raw, unpolished, full of possibility. It was through that humble blogging portal that I stumbled into the siren call of social media. July 2007: Facebook burst onto my screen like a party I wasn't sure I was invited to, followed swiftly by LinkedIn's professional polish and Twitter's electric brevity. I dove in headfirst, posting with the fervor of a convert. But by 2012-2014, the shine wore off, and what was left? Echo chambers, those suffocating halls of mirrors where every voice bounces back amplified but unchanged. Facebook and Twitter (before it became X) devolved into battlegrounds of censorship and algorithmic puppeteering—governments and gatekeepers pulling strings at every turn, turning free expression into a fragile illusion. I get the arguments for moderation, truly; unchecked vitriol can wound. But the heavy hand? It stifled more than it saved.
Elon Musk's bold strokes at Twitter—now X—breathe some life back into it, restoring a semblance of unfiltered sensibility that feels like a nod to those wilder days. Kudos to him for that; it's a valiant swing at reclaiming the town square. Yet, for me, the spark never reignited. The pull to perform, to chase fleeting validation, simply evaporated. And LinkedIn? By 2017, it had morphed into a glorified Facebook sideshow—endless humblebrags wrapped in "skills" and "achievements," a parade of self-aggrandizement that left me scrolling with a sigh. As that sharp-witted Bartleby column in The Economist so gleefully dismantles, it's less a network for growth and more a echo of corporate vanity. Have I seen real value there? Tangible shifts in careers or connections that endure? Rarely. It's a highlight reel, not a handbook for the soul. During those social media sojourns, my blog gathered dust. That's why the post count lags—690 instead of the 2,000 (I lost 6 years in that SM mania) it might have been with my old rhythm of two entries a week. I wandered, but the wilderness grew weary.
Coming home to the blog felt like slipping into an old, familiar sweater—warm, unpretentious, mine. And what a difference a decade makes in tools and temperament. These days, I lean on wonders like Microsoft Copilot to refine my drafts: it dissects my ramblings for clarity, nudges me toward contrarian angles I might've missed, and polishes the prose without stealing my voice. The result? Posts that feel validated, layered with nuance—complete perspectives that don't just vent but illuminate. There's a quiet thrill in that, a personal victory. It's like handing a rough-hewn gem to a master lapidary and watching it catch the light. In our hyper-fragmented age, where thoughts are diced into 280-character bites, reclaiming the long form feels almost defiant. It's not just writing; it's weaving a tapestry of ideas that lingers, invites reflection. If blogging taught me anything, it's that true connection blooms in depth, not dopamine hits.
And speaking of noise—mainstream media? The less said, the better, though I'll say it anyway, because 12 years without touching a TV remote deserves a mic drop. Indian channels, global networks—it's all the same script: opinion masquerading as analysis, facts buried under agendas. The bar for "newsworthy" has plummeted so low, you half-expect headlines about your neighbor's cat's existential crisis. I haven't tuned in since sometime around 2013, and honestly? Liberation. If I must glance at the world's pulse—like tracking the 2024 U.S. elections, that nail-biter of a saga—I hit a trusted site for headlines and move on. No sympathy for MSM's slow fade; it's a dinosaur stumbling toward irrelevance, felled by its own bias and bombast. Instead, I've found gold in the fringes: podcasts and YouTube streams that, for all their flaws, often wrestle both sides of an issue (I'd wager 80% of the good stuff lives in just 20% of the catalog—Pareto's law in action). Tune into a couple episodes, and you sense the authenticity immediately. Plus, they fill the glaring void in management wisdom that MSM ignores—nuggets on leadership, resilience, the human grind that enrich the mind like a slow-brewed coffee.
I'm grateful, truly, for this self-imposed exile from the frenzy. No MSM marathons, no social media scrolls—just me, my books, and a steady stream of articles that feed the curiosity without the overload. It's been two years since I last sat through a movie or documentary, and far from regret, it fills me with a gentle contentment. Time, that sly thief, has flown; I've traded screens for stories on the page, and my inner world feels fuller for it. In a global tapestry as vast as ours—where an Indian engineer's musings might resonate with a coder in Berlin or a dreamer in Nairobi—staying rooted in this analog-digital hybrid feels like a small act of sovereignty. We curate our own narratives now, and that's a privilege worth savoring.
Cast your mind back with me, if you will, to November 3rd, 1976. I was a wide-eyed kid, huddled around a crackling transistor radio, tuning into the Voice of America as Jimmy Carter's victory rippled across the airwaves—a seismic shift in American destiny, delivered raw and real. Fast-forward 50 years: from those staticky broadcasts to algorithms that serve up bespoke truths, tailored to our whims. It's a dreamscape, isn't it? We've gone from passive listeners to architects of our information empires. And in another 50? What we'll call "advanced" today—podcasts, blogs, even this post—will seem as quaint and clunky as that old radio to the wide-eyed kids of 2075. As Heraclitus whispered through the ages, nothing endures but change. The digital frontier will morph again, birthing surprises we can't yet fathom—perhaps neural implants whispering wisdom directly to our thoughts, or holographic debates that bridge continents in an instant. I'm optimistic; the arc of innovation bends toward wonder.
Would I trade my blog for these shiny new toys? Not a chance—not yet, anyway. This corner of the web is my anchor, my unyielding constant. Eyes on 3,000 posts by 2045, God willing. And who knows? A book—or books—might emerge from these threads, distilled into something you can hold in your hands, dog-eared and cherished. Twenty years in, blogging isn't just a habit; it's a heartbeat. It's taught me that the most profound voices aren't the loudest, but the truest. Thank you—for reading, for lingering, for being part of this quiet revolution. Here's to the next chapter, wherever it leads. What's one digital ritual that's shaped your story? Drop a comment; let's weave more threads together.
With warmth and wanderlust, Karthik
3/11/25.
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