The Navel Gazes Back at You!

My buddy Dave, he had a Diaryland page. Rustic Yuppie. It was semi-artistic and depressed and kinda cool in the way of yearning teenagers who play guitar. (When I checked the page, which is still up, I realized exactly how much present-me writes like past-him. Fuck.) I read it all too frequently, in the obsessive way of teenagers who really have nothing to do but check Facebook. The content was banal, but I checked so often in case he mentioned me. He did once, and not even by name. Bastard.
I've probably said all of that before. So let's go a bit further. Faced with the journal of his depression, I looked for some validation that I was of meaning to someone. This is not one of those revelations that leaves me shell-shocked and yearning to be a better person. It's kinda fucked, but it's what I did to get by.

Well, I mean, "did" is maybe a stretch. In the process of writing this, I got curious and checked his Facebook page. He is still the same Dave he was in high school, an identity that has become significantly less cool to me with the benefit of time. The revelation gave me a jolt of schadenfreudian joy that I've made more progress, immediately followed by that familiar vertigo that follows a look into the pit.

He didn't mention me on his Facebook page either. Fucker.

The Flat Level

Melancholy, in the dead of night, I return here.

How I missed you. Not the "you" of the imaginary audience. The you of Neue, my distant blog.

For the past few, I've been infected with the late-night feelings. Emotions that go past nostalgia into longing. As I put these thoughts down, I feel somehow returned to my true self, however words-for-the-sake-of-words a concept that is. Reflective, sad, and a bit circumspect, but with the addition of my newly acquired edge of viciousness.

I was reading Hourou Musuko. Reading it gives me that dread of standing tiptoed next to the abyss, elatedly waiting for the breeze that pushes me into tangled tumbling. (How florid I feel after being apart from you.) I don't write for myself anymore. What a shame. When I broke that girl's heart, I pulled up stakes and left the good ol' http://redhotsun.blogspot.com/ to escape. I gave someone the key to my diary and it blew up in my face. Whoops.

I want to be the me that wrote so much in this blog, that Jessica who poured her heart at crafting something here. The dramatic part of me wants to say that I don't know if she's there anymore, but I'm just too old to view my own struggles so romantically. It's hard not being a princess.