Almost the eulogy

I've been blogging for a long time now. Seven years is a long time, especially if one considers that I'm twenty-five. I've written in many blogs. Some were more personal and open than this one. Others were (are) shared with others. One of such blogs remains a secret today, and will remain a secret. In some blogs I talked about myself clearly. In others, I make metaphors (here). In others, I talk about myself indirectly, as I don't write objectively stuff like "I feel like shit today"; instead I write about the books I read, the movies I watched; I share political and social opinions; I publish non-sense, dark, twisted humour and general rubbish. I never did it for anyone's sake, but for mine; even when my posts assumed the form of a message especifically thought and written to someone, I did it for me, not for them. I suppose a lot of people who read me in the several blogs I write for nowadays know a lot about me, probably more than I think they do.
Anyway. I've learned some tricks in all this time. For example, on my first blog I tended to talk more about emotions in a positive, and sometimes ridiculously and pretentiously poetic way - excuse me, I was eighteen and I was a believer; not the cold-hearted cynical I am today -, and that granted me a fair audience, with some posts going for dozens of comments. Waste no time searching for that blog: it was erased from the internet years ago, and no one's going to read it anymore. Anyway. I remember the similarities between ninety percent of such comments: they were empty, they were an early version of today's "like button". I don't mind the silence. I'm used to it - I'd say that ninety-nine percent of my posts do not have a single comment, and even though I like it when I get feedback, I don't really mind it. The only sorrow I have concerning it - yes, I admit it - is that most of my best friends do not really care about whatever I write (as far as I can remember, there are three exceptions, and you know who you are), but that's something I've learned how to handle years ago, if they don't care then I have not to care about the fact that they don't care. Simple. Other than that, I do love my readers, either those I have met in person (in real life, if you want), and those I haven't (that hopefully I will meet one day - except for those who live in Brazil, in the U.S., in Central Europe, in India and in Thailand). They're few, but they're the best. All right, I wouldn't show my appreciation if they had a "like button" under them for me to click, as I wouldn't click it; but I actually enjoy writing a post like this, messed up, without much sense, just to show that even though I write for my own leisure - and my own sanity -, it's always a pleasure to have you around. Make yourselves at home all the time.
And now I notice, this post is rather similar to the blog's eulogy. Yes, an eulogy is written - and said - when someone dies. This blog will die one day, and even if I don't know when that's going to happen, I know it's going to happen. So the last post of this blog is already written, and lies locked among the drafts, waiting for the day when it's going to be needed. It's funny to think that the last post of this blog is already written, and that it is an unchangeable fact.