Ever have those moments, where it really strikes you how much has changed in your life, how much you've changed, when you look at your old work, old photos of yourself, comments you left you no longer mean that are inexorable from the annals of the internet, messages you sent to others and never got around from purging out of your inbox, promises you made you're still bound too without even thinking about, and you no longer recognize the person who left those comments as yourself, or wrote those messages and you no longer remember the intention behind them? Ever have those moments where you think about yourself at 19 or 20, 21 or whatever age, where you were at, how foolish you'd been, how silly and immature, etc, that if you could just talk to yourself knowing what you do now at that age, what you might say to yourself? How about those moments when you realize that if you could do that, you'd probably just spend a good amount of time literally beating the fuck out of yourself, telling yourself to sit your skinny ass down, chill the fuck out, stop acting so possessive, so jealous, so controlling, so mean, to stop basing everything on looks or talent, you shallow bitch then maybe you'll stop driving everyone you love away with your goddamn atrocious behavior? Would you tell yourself that it was just the medication making you crazy, or would you slap yourself across your stupid mouth for saying such an insipid thing? Would you soften when you remembered what it had actually been like to be there at the time? What it had felt like? Would you sympathize with your own pain or would you tell yourself that it gets much worse? Would you tell yourself things were going to turn out alright, and to avoid certain people on certain dates? Reading over journal entries of mine from that period, I know exactly what I'd say to myself. I'd say, "Get out of the water, Ophelia. Pull your head out of the oven Sylvia. Put down the knife, Juliet. Take the rocks out of your pocket, Virginia. Take your lips off the barrel, Violetta. Put your clothes back on, lolita. For fucks sake, pull yourself together, woman!" then I'd hardily slap myself across my over made up face. But then again, I'm awfully hard on myself. Me and that girl, we no longer see eye to eye. Shes some kind of sonnet written in a language so anachronistic I'd need a fucking seeing stone to read it. How can you feel apologetic for things you can't apologize for, to people you can't apologize too so long after you realized what it all meant? Does pride alone blind us from our own transgressions against others because it puts us in a position of vulnerability? With whom? Ourselves, or them? Or is it a matter of simply turning to face the devils from which we run and just embracing them, rather then fighting them, because they're ours, it does us no good casting them out and they're only trying to help. I no longer need comfort. I no longer wallow in bittersweet love or reverie. I've not found peace and rest, but I reckon that aint my road any damn way. Who the hell needs it? At least I know I'm alive, I can sure as shit feel it. Perhaps thats just apart of the same dream. I'm not always certain this isn't a dream, but I'm at rest, at least, with that suspicion. One things for certain, I put that town and all the roads leading to it behind me, now my feet are heavy, and I'm always restless. I turned around to speak and there wasn't anyone there to address this too. So, I guess I'll just keep going. Whats the point in stopping now? Hell of a mile ahead of me, might as well see whats at the end. My hearts more hard-bitten then it was, not phased by any sympathies for my own former delicacy I perceive now as weakness in myself and nothing more. Let every sigh, every heart flutter, every dim notion of forever be burnt away to ash in a fiery furnace. My instinct tells me nothing is more right. Maybe I just learned to relish the suffering. I don't want absolution from anyone. Not even myself.
What the FUCK keeps us from full disclosure if not the consequences? Thats what it is, isn't it? You'll still come back here, read what I've put here, wonder if I had you in mind, won't you, future self? You're a self deprecating narcissist like that. So why the fuck am I writing this to you? Another log submitted to the annals of the internet, from my self, for my self, addressed to my future self, the only eyes that will remember to peruse this entry long after its buried and forgotten seeking some kind of insight into why the fuck we keep writing these goddamn log entries to each other. Thinly veiled. Thats what it is, and you know it, future self. We're all friends here, we can both admit it to ourselves. Who are we writing too? No one in particular. Narrating our own story perhaps, to ourselves, for ourselves. Who else would want to read it, and who could really blame them? So since you can't talk to me directly, I'll talk to you:
Put down the flail of God, Genghis Khunt. Cut the sword, Damocles. Drop the dagger, Brutus. Come forward, Assassin.
Consider this a fucking challenge. Whatever it is you're planning, you crazy bitch? Just do it. Whatever it takes for you to just stop writing senseless journal entries for yourself to find later to remind you of those things. Remember, we're not looking for love.
I've been having a lot of that lately.
I'm seeking a temporary autonomous zone for myself. I'll let you know if I find it.
My process is and always has been baptism by fire,