(no subject)
I have a midterm tomorrow in Forensics, which I am exhausted in studying for. After a certain point, graphic images really just numb you...
I accidentally signed into my old AIM account today and realized I didn't recognize half the names on my list...the reassuring fact that everyone else was still using AIM but the chilling sensation that there were so many people I've met and had already forgotten. I then signed onto livejournal and scrolled through the friends of friends, the acquaintances of people from high school trying to see if people were still active writers. For the most part, I guess writing diminishes with age, the subject matter changes, we think we get wiser, that the chaos and naivete of our youth was somehow inane. For the most part, we have nothing left to write about. Yet perhaps our youth was not a mistake and that we are merely using maturity as a justification for leaving all the beauty behind because we are too afraid to realize what we have actually become.
I guess at some point we just stop trying to find ourselves and just accept everything as it is. I suppose life just catches up and bills, biological clocks, reputations, all those things which we had once fought so hard to abandon just smacks you on the side of your head (creating coup and contre-coup contusions) and you realize that maybe it is useless to continue fighting.
But I really envy you who still believes in youth
so please continue to write, to act, to believe, to create, and to dream
I accidentally signed into my old AIM account today and realized I didn't recognize half the names on my list...the reassuring fact that everyone else was still using AIM but the chilling sensation that there were so many people I've met and had already forgotten. I then signed onto livejournal and scrolled through the friends of friends, the acquaintances of people from high school trying to see if people were still active writers. For the most part, I guess writing diminishes with age, the subject matter changes, we think we get wiser, that the chaos and naivete of our youth was somehow inane. For the most part, we have nothing left to write about. Yet perhaps our youth was not a mistake and that we are merely using maturity as a justification for leaving all the beauty behind because we are too afraid to realize what we have actually become.
I guess at some point we just stop trying to find ourselves and just accept everything as it is. I suppose life just catches up and bills, biological clocks, reputations, all those things which we had once fought so hard to abandon just smacks you on the side of your head (creating coup and contre-coup contusions) and you realize that maybe it is useless to continue fighting.
But I really envy you who still believes in youth
so please continue to write, to act, to believe, to create, and to dream