That Overturned Leaf
Being reminded that LJ still exists, I logged into my dust covered account for the first time in almost five years. This diary mostly contains lamentations of failed romantic pursuits and ruminations of an ideal romantic relationship or sexual encounter. This diary is vague on some of the details relating to each and substitutes them with the flowery, honeyed words often found in my hormone fueled poems. This diary documents a formative period of time in my life when I was experimenting with love: falling into it, being in it, chasing after it, and fooling myself about it. Looking back at it all, I'm not certain that it wasn't a trap to lure in women and let their guard down.
That's not the writer that I set out to be in my youth and that's not what I'm going to let my legacy become. I'm going to reforge this tool and use it to correct the image the history already has of me. It matters not that not one of my friends still use this service as that it probably more of a boon. Should any of them blow away their own dust, I shall entertain those seeking entertainment and welcome all seeking remembrance of simpler days. For now, it is better that I write in this tomb; the quiet ruins of my youth.
I shall try my best to log in once daily to work this rust from my writing hand and I shall stray from vague poems to short stories. If I find success in doing this, perhaps I shall go back and rework some of my aforementioned formative pieces. Time heals all wounds, but editing can sometimes change the flow of time.
Waiting is.
That's not the writer that I set out to be in my youth and that's not what I'm going to let my legacy become. I'm going to reforge this tool and use it to correct the image the history already has of me. It matters not that not one of my friends still use this service as that it probably more of a boon. Should any of them blow away their own dust, I shall entertain those seeking entertainment and welcome all seeking remembrance of simpler days. For now, it is better that I write in this tomb; the quiet ruins of my youth.
I shall try my best to log in once daily to work this rust from my writing hand and I shall stray from vague poems to short stories. If I find success in doing this, perhaps I shall go back and rework some of my aforementioned formative pieces. Time heals all wounds, but editing can sometimes change the flow of time.
Waiting is.