It's been forever since I wrote. And it might be forever until I write again. It's hard to write in this place because I've changed so much. I can't dribble flyby thoughts on this place anymore, because these flyby thoughts wouldn't make sense without the context around it. The context I've built in this journal has changed.
But this place is a museum to so much of my life. I used to write here when I was lonely at night, and wanted to share to with someone, with anyone. It was a companion, a source of comfort.
Slowly, I began to make mental notes during the day about events I wanted to write down at night. I started to notice things, discover what attracted my interest, what was important to me. This journal became a point of continuity in my loose and disheveled life. It was a place that tracked my thought patterns, where I conjured up a belief system. As a lost adolescent, it was a healing salve. This was a place of growth.
And in this growth, I started to become a whole person. I found a world and a person that I love. This world of my creation is a beautiful and ghastly place littered with smoke and mirrors, pulsating strobe lights, and hidden corners. And armed with my keen eye, fast-talking mouth, and mind, I am ready to explore its dark crevices and sun-splashed mountaintops.
Tremendously satisfied. That's how you'd describe me right now. I've had a drama filled weekend of friends and enemies, love and debauchery, substances and substance. Now on this Sunday afternoon, I'm going to sit on my bed with a cup of tea, smoke some, and do my chinese homework. Lovely moment. A moment of deservéd serenity. But never stop growing.
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