Autobiography of a Hashtag

My memory serves to remind me that I was first noticed in what were ancient gadgets called 'Landlines'. I am pretty sure, as I am well reminded, that I must have served some purpose in Mathematics, but as life would have it, short term memory has a long history in me. Not only in Mathematics, I do not even remember to what effect I was used when on those telephones. Perhaps I acted as the redial button? Pass. I do know of my role in the mobile phone generation though. I am a part of the code which enables a command. Does that make me feel special? Not even insignificantly. Hanging on as an extra key, after the more important numbers! In fact, these irrational, insensitive manufacturers, in their bid to save space, sometimes assigned me to a character or a number. The disgrace! I had to be long-pressed to function. May be that is why they started calling me 'special' character. Huh, as if being polite meant you have respected the difference. Users, losers! One-up, yo.

While naughty speakers fingered my boring lines when whispering love into the telephone wires, there would be poets who would be shaping lyrics from emotions. There would be a species called 'writers', I mean. And they would be epic -- in explaining and expressing, in their overall stature. I took to their madness. Coyly, I used to snuggle up to the loving words these writers would unfurl from their pens. The words seemed to dance and float on paper. They were cunning little enticers, one in a chain with the other. Their being together denied me, or anyone, the charm of a relationship with any one of them. I was sad. My life was useless. I watched in wonder and sighed shapelessly. One-all.

And then, on a day like any other, I became a revolution, virtually. Really. Listen, how.

These writers, their madness was curbed into commercialism by the attention-span of the readers. They were now made to write only the core of a concept. Exaggeration, apparently, is an art not many could appreciate. Sigh (too many sighs around my petty life). Elaboration became a passe. Readers became lazy and to cater to them, an even lazier policy-maker uprooted me from my source and flung me at the words to see their end. My edges would cut them through, he believed. It was pointless.

I was, by then, madly in love with words. I picked up the opportunity to finally find a voice for myself. Seeking the blessings of The Assembly of Mad Writers, I achieved a special magnetic power by virtue of which words would cling to me like nobody's business, like a relationship, like life could not be elsewhere. I now have intense magnetic prowess where a single word stays stuck to me and attracts all entries linked to it. Procreation.

My life has found a new meaning in multiple meanings -- my possibilities and popularity are not less than legendary. Yet, I remember, I suffer from short term memory loss! Sometimes my own children cannot identify their parent codes, and vice-versa. Such is life. I cannot decide whether I won or lost. My love spreads to a lot of lives and this is my autobiography. I am one with many.

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