I'm not really feeling nostalgic. I'm not trying to remember anything, and I'm only trying to relive in as much as I want that return to consciousness, that renewed awareness that the world is still in front of me and that I am still in front of me and that I need to feel terrified and vulnerable and naive and hopeful because that's who I am when I'm me. Existence precedes essence. Proceed.
I mean, I really do want to return to becoming me, starting from the me I am now. But I guess I'm not being entirely truthful about not wanting to see as I saw four years ago. I miss how passionate and breakable I was, and how even when I as cryptic or just telling my soul to a deserted blog, I was at least honest. In that way, I guess I haven't changed-- it's so much easier for me to be real with the illusion of somebody watching. Were this a diary or some private note tucked away in a dresser drawer or a hidden folder on my computer, it would all be lies or it would all be nothing. Here, in front of you, even though you is presumably no one, I have to see and feel everything. I have to stew in it, to blister rather than compartmentalize.
I wish I could describe what I was feeling like now, or I wish someone could see how ridiculous I look. I feel turned on. I mean, I feel activated-- like someone plugged me in or re-lit me or shook me out some stoic slumber. I'm grinning, not necessarily happy, and crying, not necessarily sad, and my face is flushed full of life. I guess there's a learning curve to feeling, or at least a clumsy process to remembering that I am and must be really, presently here and that I must never arrive.
So, tell you friends! I'm back, world. I'm back, nobody. And I'm on my way.
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