Nostalgia Strikes Again!
Storm Claims the Lives on Many Souls, Few Survive the Tyrannous Winds
by Derek King
Perhaps the hardest part about stumbling upon something that you had forgotten are the flood of memories that follow. You notice how easy it once all seemed, or how carefree, or even how intelligent you seemed, how innocent. Nostalgia is a quieter form of regret. A shadow of it's larger and malicious sibling, it still has crippling power over you're heart and soul.
I don't remember writing this much on Live Journal. I never wrote much really, but, the things I did write, were either quite personal, or actually a little thought provoking(minus references to Red Sox or movies, I mean, who really cared?). Did I really write some of these things? Was I really that creative enough to come up with half this stuff? Jesus, I sucked at spelling.
The biggest scare was that in 4 years, I'm essentially in the same spot as before. There is a reason my last journal entry was in September 05. In October 05, I met my current girlfriend, and in November 05, we began dating. What little values I had believed gone at that time, were now entirely sacrificed in the name of acceptance and belonging.
That sounds so horrible. I love my girlfriend. She has made me happier than I thought possible. This happiness however comes with a certain contentedness that is confounding: I no longer care about the world. Why should I? My world is safe, secure, my tower is pure. The roses around me are sweet and beautiful, but their thorns will slice through anyone who would attempt to awaken me. That is what I fear, that is why I don't sound happy. I feel like I've lost something along the way. It began long before Meagan, but she merely sealed the wax, and shipped the letter off.
When did societal values slowly encroach on my life? When did I decide to submit to a culture that destroys ambition but promotes power, that values security over change, and will let ideas stagnate as long as consumers still flood retailers daily. Like I said, the idea of a family, a house, a white picket fence came long before Meagan, but she has been the one to close the door on any other option, all out of love.
What came first, the chicken or the egg? Well, if the father stays home, there are probably plenty of eggs, and the hopefully, the Chicken came first, because a gentlemen always acomodates his lady. If the rooster leaves however, that Chicken will lay eggs for a man willing to stay, to set aside worldy dreams to raise those eggs into children. No matter if the rooster is freeing men from slavery, creating peace, or finding cures, there will be no chicken for him to come home to. Thus, no eggs for him anyways.
Reading some old entries I wondered what made me write so much. Now I see that it's addicting almost. Once you begin, it just flows from you, and it's hard to damn a river that won't be plugged. Or clot the blood of a hemophiliac. I think the second is more appropriate.