Marchin' On
Long time no see, LiveJournal. I used to update this thing every other week. Now it's every three or four months. Sad, but true. I think I used to write in here so often, because once upon a time there was a community of people invested in the things I would write here. I'd click out my entry the night before and then eagerly check my email in the morning to see a few black bolded notifications from LiveJournal. Someone read what I wrote and responded. Could there be anything more satisfying as a budding writer? Now, my LiveJournal community is a ghost town. The only comments I get are spam in Spanish no less. I can't even get spam written in my native tongue! That's when you know your blog is dead. The spam comes out like carrion birds to pick and peck at the long dead flesh of a poor soul. And I look back on the days when this e-town my friends created here thrived - When we OMG-ed about whatever we saw on TV that week, or complained about a certain sketchy teacher and their off-color comments during human growth and development, or the other sketchy teacher with the elementary school sweaters and pretentious taste in theater, when we recounted our boring days by infusing them with inside jokes and whatever we ate that day or were having for dinner that night, when we actively scavenged for userpics the way some people scavenge for quirky, rusted collectibles at pawn shops, and when not responding to a friend's latest LiveJournal entry constituted as an offense. And nostalgia settles in, pangs my insides, gets my eyes all misty, but it only lasts for a little while, because it does not do well to dwell on the past and forget to live. It's all about the future, people! Moving forward. One foot in front of the other, and all that jazz. I romanticize the past too much. I think partly, because I'm afraid I'll never capture that feeling again. That feeling of happiness, completeness, delight. That feeling when you're on the edge of something massive, and scary and wonderful all at the same time. I want to photograph and scrapbook them emotionally, so that when I'm feeling depressed, or bored I can pull them out and by remembering, inspire them into existence. For the first time in my life though, I'm not relying so much on those remnants to get a second-hand high of that feeling I want. I'm in the present, and I'm trying to enjoy everything that that means, whatever it is.
I'm still sad about poor Rory and Amy Pond and the fate of their child. I sense a tragedy in the making, brewing, and almost coming to a boil. I don't know why this Doctor Who twist is affecting me so. THEY ARE NOT REAL PEOPLE. But they exist in my mind, and as I result they feel real, and therefore become real. Not REAL real, but a presence in my life. The terrible thing about fiction is that it creates worlds, and people that you come to know intimately in a way that rarely happens in reality. That taste of intimacy, of being involved in something bigger than you is tantalizing. And distracting. I'm trying really hard to disengage myself emotionally from all these fictitious realities I love. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part II comes out next month and I don't want it to devastate me. I want to enjoy it and celebrate everything Harry Potter has given me. I will cry. I will leave the theater with a wad of tissues in my hand, but the mourning ends there. 'Cause there's bigger and better and more important things out there. And they're not fiction.