Breathing in Despair in 2014

Here I am, cast from the wreckage of Open Diary. Wreckage caused not so much by an explosion, but rather rot and decay. An archaic monument of everything that is humanity, brought to its knees by a crumbling foundation and a lack of attention until it no longer mattered.

I hadn't updated in months, and only found out because a friend hit me up on Facebook to tell me. I'm quite grateful. I keep most mementos from important memories. I think somewhere on my computer I have the files for my old TOD, and now the history of my OD joins that and the various conversations saved back when I lived and died to talk to friends on AIM, MSN, or Yahoo. Most made through either diary sites or forums, both of which are dying breeds in the era of social media. I appreciate Facebook, Twitter, and all the rest, but it's not the same. It is shallow. The same memes repeated constantly, quickly losing any humor. A myriad of generic pictures with text over the top being paraded around by ignorant people who have no idea if the shit they swear by is true or fabricated. I very rarely drop off insight there, for it feels wasted. Not because I am that wise, simply because the standards are that low.

Maybe it's all too obvious. I can see too much, and it's not just physical appearances. The trends people perpetuate and the habits they succumb to alienate me more than they endear me. In the anonymous diary days, there were only scraps of information. I didn't know what most people looked like, and maybe I felt a deeper connection because I could not instantly make judgments. I had no idea what music they liked or what activities they partook in unless they stated it in an entry. The unknown seemed to stretch on infinitely. We all know that the unknown is almost always more interesting.

After saying my goodbyes on OD, I found myself combing the front page, reading the recent entries, all save for a couple talking about the end. It wasn't my sadness, yet I was attracted to it. I could empathize with it. These people who i didn't know beforehand and didn't care enough about to get to know still made me feel closer to them than 90% of my friends and acquaintances residing in other places. I'm nowhere close to as emotional as I used to be. I'm a pack leader, yet also a lone wolf. Every night when I try to sleep, all others fade away. It's just me vs. the world. I have done things to isolate myself from others, to not rely on them. It's a polar opposite of how I used to be. I've outgrown what I've come to not need, for sure. It also seems like I lost the stimuli that kept me longing to be connected to others.

I may as well be a different person now. I felt no comfort in confiding things to those around me, so it was all done online. I had a lot of friends over the years, for quite a while I was on AIM and MSN daily. Lots of great conversations, lots of laughs. These days talking through text feels almost awkward. It's easiest and most effective to convey my desires and humor to people face to face. That awkward teenager rests somewhere inside me, and always will. Prosebox will suffice for now. I may come to neglect it as I have OD, Xanga, and Livejournal, but I need to be able to take it for granted. I want that right. Accepting emptiness if I desire, and knowing that I can make something from nothing if I need to. I love to create. Someday I want to create songs. As it is I create events for friends and sometimes even friendships between others through my intervention. Before all of that I was creating archives of memories, and there's still an appeal there.

Well, damn, that's enough. I just meant to make a basic first entry and ended up ranting. It feels nice. Cathartic. Just like old times.