I always come back to you, don't I?
Maybe I should just give up and admit that I'm a livejournaler (-ist?). After six years (!!!) of LJ, I still pretend I'm too good for this, and will go a year without posting at a time. I sniff at it, I mock it, I feel guilty about my involvement with it, but I always come crawling back.
The fact of the matter is, I've had this journal longer than my e-mail address, my apartment, my job, and so on and so forth. I went through the entire back catalog of entries tonight and was moved to tears several times. It is an archive, a very imperfect one, of my history. The voracious hedonism, the hysterical yearning, the stalwart camaraderie, the delicious indulgence of dizzying angst. If I ignore this archive or pretend it doesn't exist, I am letting memory moulder.
Needless to say, I made a whole lot of back entries private tonight. :)
The fact of the matter is, I've had this journal longer than my e-mail address, my apartment, my job, and so on and so forth. I went through the entire back catalog of entries tonight and was moved to tears several times. It is an archive, a very imperfect one, of my history. The voracious hedonism, the hysterical yearning, the stalwart camaraderie, the delicious indulgence of dizzying angst. If I ignore this archive or pretend it doesn't exist, I am letting memory moulder.
Needless to say, I made a whole lot of back entries private tonight. :)