14 years ago, I blogged. every week, if not every day.
Reviews of stuff I read/saw, mostly, written for people i never mentioned by name.
I guess I wrote for my old roommate, at first - I would write as if she would hang on every word, poke every flaw, ask every question. She was my imaginary audience, long after we moved out and away, where she became even more a figment of my imagination, difficult to remember what phrasing to use to trigger which desired (but never truly experienced) response.
I wrote song-prose about people I met, evenings that meant something to me, moments I didn’t want to forget, gestures I wish I had made in person. Dreams that felt like deja-vu, lies turned into wishes through the act of writing.
and then, for many reasons, for one reason, for no reason, I stopped. cold turkey. The part of my brain that was open and playful and wordy and emo and bullshit and permanently an annoying 20something - she stagnated, darkened, hid.
I didn’t let the words out and, in my mind, they grew unfit for human consumption.
I miss that melancholy romantic and I’m hoping I can woo her back. Not the old roommate, that minx - I miss the woman who wrote for Marcy, for Sam, for Frank, for Griffin, for me. the girl who wrote like no one minded doing the research to figure out why something was funny (trust me, you’ll get there. it’s still funny).
it’s not Facebook.
it’s not twitter.
but it is picturepicture. always has been.