I took to facebook pretty quickly. I've hardly been off it since.

In fact, it's quicker to count the days when I haven't logged in. Including illness, it's probably less than ten days in the last four years.

What I like in particular is the status update function.

Back then, there was no question asked by the text entry box. Instead, there was a preposition: 'is'.

I thought this was a great invitation. To be pithy. To ramble. To unload. To vent. To lament. To share. To be me.

So I started doing that.

But pretty soon, I realised that Facebook status updates are more than that. More than just a record of what's on your mind, right now, as the current dialogue has it.

Kinda like a self-portrait. But in words.

And then I thought: where are these things actually going?

You see, with any other type of portrait or self-portrait, chances are that they're being made and therefore kept for posterity.

But these were disappearing. No doubt if I was more techie, I could have easily rescued them, but at the time it felt like they were disappearing into the bowels of facebook's servers.

And that felt like a shame, seeing as I was being very good at updating my status. I was doing it, almost as regular as clockwork, once a day, pretty much the same time, just before starting work.

So then I thought: wouldn't it be good to keep these self-portraits, bring them down from the digital ether, make them corporeal?

And that's what I started doing. I've been logging my status updates in a notebook, pen and ink, at the same time I've been posting them on the site.

So one aspect of my digital persona has a paper analogue. There are now over a thousand of these entries, jotted down in nearly 20 notebooks.

I wanted to see what that – what I – might look like, when freed from the constraints of the web, and the notebooks.

Hence what you see in front of you. Over 1,000 postcards, featuring a self-portrait. Each a tiny sliver of me.