(no subject)
Writing a journal is one of the best investments a person can make (or I can make, at least.) For me, today, on my birthday, being taken on a tour of my life nine years ago-hosted by my prior self-has been thrilling. Hey, let me select a mood icon to oversee my writing. I haven't been able to do that since I left MySpace behind.
It feels good to be here. I thought a part of my heart had fallen out, but when I'm here, I feel the warmth of it in my chest again.
I don't know how to comprehensively express how blissful it is for me to read each and every one of these posts. It's almost as incredible as time-traveling. I had been irrefutably in love, something I can't relate to now. But when I'm reading my own words about it, I know exactly how it felt. Memories pour in and the words sprout into a vivid world. I breathe it in, close my eyes and feel the present transform as well. The people have changed and the surroundings have changed, but the sensation is always pristine. I guess I can time-travel after all, albeit throughout this one particular dimension.
You can't always get people back, though. You have to realize that physical death isn't the only way to lose someone. People like to say that we were always here, like we were stardust before, but that's not true. It takes a strictly specific combination of various elements to make us exist, and even after achieving the status of being biologically alive, our environment helps to shape us into who we are. Some people aren't as resilient as others, and if the situation changes drastically enough, they change drastically as well. That girl I used to be in love with-I wish that she was still reading this. No, not the version of her that still exists. The one from back then. That girl is gone forever.
I'm not sure, but I might wish that Facebook and Twitter had never happened. I liked being in touch with people the way that I had been here on LiveJournal. No one that wasn't supremely relevant to my life ever read this journal. This was a special, privileged world. You had all this space and time to really think about things and produce something intimate and meaningful. Now you're supposed to blurt out every single sentence's worth of thought that you have on Facebook or Twitter, to the whole world. And you know, the new social experience doesn't feel nearly as special to me.
I accomplished more than I thought I had. The memories in this journal concerning my cover band are more valuable than I ever thought they would be. In those times, our bass player was alive and vibrant. Last year he died from cancer that began in his lungs, courtesy of cigarette smoking.
I felt hopeless for a long time. Sometimes I still think that I'm done, but then I consider that I would be considerably better at everything that I've ever wanted to do. The passion is what's missing. I read Kurt Cobain's suicide note, and the reason he gave for killing himself is essentially the same thing that I have been experiencing for a while. I mean, he didn't have to kill himself because he didn't think he'd be able to write sincere music anymore. He could have just taken a break and not released anything until he felt that he loved it again (a la Justin Timberlake's years of interlude between albums.) But I understand. He was perishing in the way that you perish without suffering a physical death, or he thought he was. I still look back at the way I used to be and wish that I was still that way. I haven't given up though.
It feels good to be here. I thought a part of my heart had fallen out, but when I'm here, I feel the warmth of it in my chest again.
I don't know how to comprehensively express how blissful it is for me to read each and every one of these posts. It's almost as incredible as time-traveling. I had been irrefutably in love, something I can't relate to now. But when I'm reading my own words about it, I know exactly how it felt. Memories pour in and the words sprout into a vivid world. I breathe it in, close my eyes and feel the present transform as well. The people have changed and the surroundings have changed, but the sensation is always pristine. I guess I can time-travel after all, albeit throughout this one particular dimension.
You can't always get people back, though. You have to realize that physical death isn't the only way to lose someone. People like to say that we were always here, like we were stardust before, but that's not true. It takes a strictly specific combination of various elements to make us exist, and even after achieving the status of being biologically alive, our environment helps to shape us into who we are. Some people aren't as resilient as others, and if the situation changes drastically enough, they change drastically as well. That girl I used to be in love with-I wish that she was still reading this. No, not the version of her that still exists. The one from back then. That girl is gone forever.
I'm not sure, but I might wish that Facebook and Twitter had never happened. I liked being in touch with people the way that I had been here on LiveJournal. No one that wasn't supremely relevant to my life ever read this journal. This was a special, privileged world. You had all this space and time to really think about things and produce something intimate and meaningful. Now you're supposed to blurt out every single sentence's worth of thought that you have on Facebook or Twitter, to the whole world. And you know, the new social experience doesn't feel nearly as special to me.
I accomplished more than I thought I had. The memories in this journal concerning my cover band are more valuable than I ever thought they would be. In those times, our bass player was alive and vibrant. Last year he died from cancer that began in his lungs, courtesy of cigarette smoking.
I felt hopeless for a long time. Sometimes I still think that I'm done, but then I consider that I would be considerably better at everything that I've ever wanted to do. The passion is what's missing. I read Kurt Cobain's suicide note, and the reason he gave for killing himself is essentially the same thing that I have been experiencing for a while. I mean, he didn't have to kill himself because he didn't think he'd be able to write sincere music anymore. He could have just taken a break and not released anything until he felt that he loved it again (a la Justin Timberlake's years of interlude between albums.) But I understand. He was perishing in the way that you perish without suffering a physical death, or he thought he was. I still look back at the way I used to be and wish that I was still that way. I haven't given up though.