This is where I used to come to write things, and for a long time, it was good. Good for me, and good for you. I then became disenchanted; again, with me, and with you. I began to feel like the things I really and badly needed to write about, I could not share with you. And without an audience to feed my ego, either out of narcissism or necessity, the need to write itself, and its usefulness to me as I conceived of it at the time, slowly dried up. I believe that was a critical error on my part, but things having been as they were, it was also probably unavoidable. I think it is time for me to return.
I must assure you that I am apprehensive. This is the internet, and I am exposing myself. I've spent years carefully and ably withholding knowledge of myself from the external universe, tailoring my catalog of personal facts and modes of humor to each of the people I happen to love or get along with, perhaps a different strain of myself for each person. As sure as I am that this is incredibly commonplace behavior, I am also sure that the effect would be the same even if the behavior was not present. No one sees the same picture. Nonetheless, I am occasionally more or less overcome with a jolting, gut-punching dissatisfaction in what I think has been a long and willful denial of other hearts and minds into my own. This has to change before things get out of hand. Consider this journal a defensive strategy against previous defensive strategies. My aim here is to let off some steam before the hull cracks. The steam will take the form of little truths about me, or at least some considered self-interpretation. Of course, I will write about other things as well, because I get bored with my self just as you must have become bored long ago with people regurgitating their personal turmoil into dramatic little vignettes for you to comment on. I see weird shit all the time, and I promise to write nicely about it. At the very least, I need to practice writing again. I am rusty, charleyhorsed.
Livejournal, I return to you and embrace you as an outlet. I am simultaneously repulsed by the fact that I am writing this, and the fact that you are reading this, but I suspect that it will be best for at least one of us. Oh, do not expect the whole shebang. I cannot even conceive of a time when I will be willing, or even able, to perform a written vivisection of all my innards; anyway, the medium (and any other) does not permit that. Plus, I have to keep the choice secrets locked away for future barter. There is also the problem with my never having thoroughly (or anything much more than cursorily) examined myself for myself. I could say that I feel fragmented, but that's not quite it; it is more like feeling shadowed, shaded. I have undergrowth to hack through, you see?
So, this journal shall have several uses. I will dump into it memories, nightmares, fucked up fantasies, moments of beauty, snippets of overheard or generated conversation, annoying meanderings, conclusions that you had pegged when you were in middle school, experiences you wish were your own, criticism, madness, poetry, stories, and eulogies. I am mining for soul.
Also, it is worth noting that I may abort this project at any time, and that the possibility exists that I might never write here again after this post. One problem that sure would be great to resolve is my seeming disinterest in committing to projects of the most useful kind. However, this probably will not be all. I hope and pray, except not really. I tend not to pray.
Also: quit reading my private thoughts!
Just kidding. Thank you.