creepy nostalgia
Every time I come here I am in awe of how verbose and vulnerable I used to be. The reckless abandon with feelings, names, and details that nobody ever asked for. Not to say I'm any less vulnerable these days--I am. I've most likely inherited the genetic (but undiagnosed) anxieties that I see in my mother, father, uncles, aunts, cousins, sisters, that are now finally revealing themselves now that I'm almost 30.
30, can you imagine? I was 14 years old when I started this Livejournal, which makes this the actual chronicle of my early to late adolescence. All the loves I've loved, lost and found I listed down here (albeit cryptically at times).
Somewhere along the way, I didn't have the time or maybe it just fell out of style to write on Livejournal. There were quicker and more guarded ways to express feelings through Tumblr, Twitter, and belatedly, Instagram. Intro and retrospection take a lot of time and effort, which is probably why I am puttering around with this entry.
Not that there was supposed to be a point. I think that's my problem: Trying to find the point in things. I'm impatient by nature and I've lost confidence in my own words. But self-pity aside, I've also just gotten over myself. As a young girl surrounded by conventionally pretty friends, it was self-assurance and overcompensation to assume that my only beauty was my way with words.
I'd like to write more, and I keep telling myself this. I want to wrangle out all of this pent-up energy and turn it into something worth reading and re-telling. Perhaps it's going to come at the cost of my comfort, some anxieties, and the discipline that comes with thinking about writing in long form.
So as an exercise in endurance, let me do just that by publishing this for me, for whoever might be reading this on a Sunday afternoon in March.