Table for Glasses
I've been drawn to reading these old entries lately, amused and appalled by the minutia I once deemed fit for the internet. I miss that compulsion, MUST SUBMIT FEELINGS TO THE HIVEMIND. It was so... personal. There was no threat of my mom posting a comment, no worries about whether conservative and liberal friends would start arguing, no fear of trolls. I felt that way about Twitter for a while, but then my boss followed me. And my uncle. And I doubt they even read Twitter, but it ruined the fun. Facebook is basically for posting a selfie every time I get my hair cut and moderating event invites; the idea of posting something emotional on Facebook is almost gross.
I miss both the immediacy of these feelings and the freedom to dump them on the world, to set them free. I cringe now at the idea of documenting a one-night-stand or a one-month-relationship, but I love that these play-by-plays exist, that my 29-year-old mind that's had too many all-nighters, crazy parties, kissing games, and stupid choices to distinguish the difference between them all can still read these old dramas and have a flash of recognition for that moment. It makes me wish I had had the diligence to keep any record of the last six years, which have been blessed but blurry. How can I reminisce five years from now when there won't be any record of what happened from 24-29?
I want to think that my recent obsession with the way back machine, my current heightened emotional state, my desire to open the valve on messy feelings and honest conversations (When did I stop talking about things that are real? When did my narrative become saccharine? When did I internalize that the fastest way to make someone jealous is to tell them that you're happy?), will herald a new era of self-expression and record-keeping. But it probably won't.
I guess this is a start: September 5th, 2013. I feel like I traded passion for stability, creativity for cookbooks. The better my life gets the more I want to act out, tiny tantrums behind screens. I daydream about it all crashing down so I can get a tiny apartment in a bad neighborhood and begin again.
I miss both the immediacy of these feelings and the freedom to dump them on the world, to set them free. I cringe now at the idea of documenting a one-night-stand or a one-month-relationship, but I love that these play-by-plays exist, that my 29-year-old mind that's had too many all-nighters, crazy parties, kissing games, and stupid choices to distinguish the difference between them all can still read these old dramas and have a flash of recognition for that moment. It makes me wish I had had the diligence to keep any record of the last six years, which have been blessed but blurry. How can I reminisce five years from now when there won't be any record of what happened from 24-29?
I want to think that my recent obsession with the way back machine, my current heightened emotional state, my desire to open the valve on messy feelings and honest conversations (When did I stop talking about things that are real? When did my narrative become saccharine? When did I internalize that the fastest way to make someone jealous is to tell them that you're happy?), will herald a new era of self-expression and record-keeping. But it probably won't.
I guess this is a start: September 5th, 2013. I feel like I traded passion for stability, creativity for cookbooks. The better my life gets the more I want to act out, tiny tantrums behind screens. I daydream about it all crashing down so I can get a tiny apartment in a bad neighborhood and begin again.