Last stop. Everyone off.
It's about 30, 34 hours now. 34 hours left of being a teenager. Then, it's over, another era gone.
I could recap. I could go over all that happened to me as a teenager, all that I did, I saw. Every scar I bore, every sight that awed, every touch I felt.
But I'm not certain that I should. It feels like it would cheapen it, somehow, to place it here, to release it from the dark confines of my memory. I've never shared everything, after all. If I told you I did...
I was lying.
That's how it works. No matter what we do, no matter what we say, there's always the unspoken. The one little thing we want to say but don't, the wisdom we want to reveal, but shy away from - afraid of hurting another, afraid of hurting ourselves. Can you find someone you can tell everything to? Perhaps. I wouldn't know. At least...not yet.
These aren't journals. Not really. They're showcases, cries for attention. A way of shouting "Look at me! Look at my life, my joys, my problems! Look at what a person I am!" Journals aren't meant to be read. Journals are secret things, kept hidden in bookshelves, locked closed and away from the eyes of any other living soul. We don't tell journals our secrets if they're in danger of being read. Nothing written here has ever been for myself. It's always been for you.
You, the reader, this faceless facsimile of a character, the unknown observer. You take in, and you contemplate, and you judge. You decide what emotion I'm worth, what I deserve, and you give it to me, and because that's exactly what I want, I eat it up. I devour your pity, consume your joy, and come back for your hatred again, and again, and again.
I'm finished eating.
That's what I said, isn't it? The end of an era. Curtains close, the audience applauds (those of them that have stuck through the performance, at least), I throw off my costume and makeup and everyone goes home.
This probably doesn't come as much of a surprise to any of you. The only one of you I even talk to over messenger programs anymore is Angelina, and I usually don't even bother unless I'm drunk. I don't read what you've written. I don't write anything myself. All this is, is closure. Sweet, undeniable closure.
So this is it, the last entry in http:///www.livejournal.com/users/winterchill. And here you are, wondering what brought me to this, just who this Michael Welch is.
So here. A portrait of myself, at the end of my teenage years.
I am 5'4" and 125 lbs, with a long messy mop of brown hair, blue eyes framed by glasses, and more often than not stubble. I smile and laugh and make jokes a lot, and do my best to be the fun person that everyone wants to be around, because the alternative is to be lonely. I am figuring out a relationship, I am maintaining my friendships, and I am just not giving a damn about my rivalries. I am moving on and moving up, changing my life and looking away from things that no longer hold my interest. I am a man, whether I like it or not, and have to act like one. I am just as confused by the world as anyone else and have attempted to deal with it by deciding that whatever comes comes, and there's not much you can do about that. I believe in ghosts and demons and ignore the fact that it must mean I believe in God too. I stay as fit as necessary and do what I enjoy, ignoring things that are dull and tired. I love and I lust, and I usually can't figure out which is which. I make movies, I write, I create. In the end, I am myself and no one else, and there's nothing that can change that.
That's all, folks. Adios.
If you're the last one out, take the coffeepot off and turn out all the lights.
I could recap. I could go over all that happened to me as a teenager, all that I did, I saw. Every scar I bore, every sight that awed, every touch I felt.
But I'm not certain that I should. It feels like it would cheapen it, somehow, to place it here, to release it from the dark confines of my memory. I've never shared everything, after all. If I told you I did...
I was lying.
That's how it works. No matter what we do, no matter what we say, there's always the unspoken. The one little thing we want to say but don't, the wisdom we want to reveal, but shy away from - afraid of hurting another, afraid of hurting ourselves. Can you find someone you can tell everything to? Perhaps. I wouldn't know. At least...not yet.
These aren't journals. Not really. They're showcases, cries for attention. A way of shouting "Look at me! Look at my life, my joys, my problems! Look at what a person I am!" Journals aren't meant to be read. Journals are secret things, kept hidden in bookshelves, locked closed and away from the eyes of any other living soul. We don't tell journals our secrets if they're in danger of being read. Nothing written here has ever been for myself. It's always been for you.
You, the reader, this faceless facsimile of a character, the unknown observer. You take in, and you contemplate, and you judge. You decide what emotion I'm worth, what I deserve, and you give it to me, and because that's exactly what I want, I eat it up. I devour your pity, consume your joy, and come back for your hatred again, and again, and again.
I'm finished eating.
That's what I said, isn't it? The end of an era. Curtains close, the audience applauds (those of them that have stuck through the performance, at least), I throw off my costume and makeup and everyone goes home.
This probably doesn't come as much of a surprise to any of you. The only one of you I even talk to over messenger programs anymore is Angelina, and I usually don't even bother unless I'm drunk. I don't read what you've written. I don't write anything myself. All this is, is closure. Sweet, undeniable closure.
So this is it, the last entry in http:///www.livejournal.com/users/winterchill. And here you are, wondering what brought me to this, just who this Michael Welch is.
So here. A portrait of myself, at the end of my teenage years.
I am 5'4" and 125 lbs, with a long messy mop of brown hair, blue eyes framed by glasses, and more often than not stubble. I smile and laugh and make jokes a lot, and do my best to be the fun person that everyone wants to be around, because the alternative is to be lonely. I am figuring out a relationship, I am maintaining my friendships, and I am just not giving a damn about my rivalries. I am moving on and moving up, changing my life and looking away from things that no longer hold my interest. I am a man, whether I like it or not, and have to act like one. I am just as confused by the world as anyone else and have attempted to deal with it by deciding that whatever comes comes, and there's not much you can do about that. I believe in ghosts and demons and ignore the fact that it must mean I believe in God too. I stay as fit as necessary and do what I enjoy, ignoring things that are dull and tired. I love and I lust, and I usually can't figure out which is which. I make movies, I write, I create. In the end, I am myself and no one else, and there's nothing that can change that.
That's all, folks. Adios.
If you're the last one out, take the coffeepot off and turn out all the lights.