Livejournal is weird.
It was strange to come back to this blog. One of my early loves, this thing was. It's one thing to write within a tangible, paper journal, but it's almost another to write online. Knowing that no one will probably read this/knows it exists/has it forgotten, I feel almost safe to write. Not only safe. Free.
I've meandered back to this journal just because I needed to be reminded of what I used to be like, and how I used to love writing. I needed to be refreshed and have this-- skill-- reopened. I guess the me I was then and the person I've become, one can see there's a serious shift. It seemed as if I were hiding behind this identity that I constantly needed someone there for me. Being by myself isn't all that bad, although I wouldn't go as far as to call it being lonely. Being alone. Singular and strong. It's a wondrous thing I've come to find, and I suppose as a part of finding the path to where I am now, it had to be. I'm content. There's no more hiding behind a shroud of paranoia. This is it.
The only thing I miss about the girl I used to be was her sense of fun and adventure. Reading these rusty journal entries, seeing the ability to convey excitement within every word, every line is enough to make my teeth hurt. Someone once told me that I'm an old woman trapped in the body of someone much younger. A weathered, old, tired soul. What is it that I need?
The search continues. In the meanwhile, this journal is soothing on this poor, old soul.
I've meandered back to this journal just because I needed to be reminded of what I used to be like, and how I used to love writing. I needed to be refreshed and have this-- skill-- reopened. I guess the me I was then and the person I've become, one can see there's a serious shift. It seemed as if I were hiding behind this identity that I constantly needed someone there for me. Being by myself isn't all that bad, although I wouldn't go as far as to call it being lonely. Being alone. Singular and strong. It's a wondrous thing I've come to find, and I suppose as a part of finding the path to where I am now, it had to be. I'm content. There's no more hiding behind a shroud of paranoia. This is it.
The only thing I miss about the girl I used to be was her sense of fun and adventure. Reading these rusty journal entries, seeing the ability to convey excitement within every word, every line is enough to make my teeth hurt. Someone once told me that I'm an old woman trapped in the body of someone much younger. A weathered, old, tired soul. What is it that I need?
The search continues. In the meanwhile, this journal is soothing on this poor, old soul.