I’ve transferred over everything I could find into a new archive, from most of my old journals and a handful of PC-saved notes. I’ve excluded the tens of thousands of words from my old daily journals, from ~2004-05; they’re unrecoverable now, but even if I still had them, the depressed teenage contrarian vibe is barely interesting, even to me. I had a hard drive failure last year, the entire drive lost, and I have no idea how many of my words — previously saved to that drive for historical record — are now gone forever. But after collating the things I could find into this new archive, the loss feels less impactful; there’s enough left here to make me feel satisfied with the time capsules I have now.
It seems like I’ve barely stopped writing. I can see the various me’s over time, which is interesting. It’s nice having these little portals into the you’s of a decade ago, or even just a few years back. How I write has changed, which reflects how I see myself, how I think about things, how I see other people.
One thing I’d wish for though, is for more of it. Many threads are left hanging, my points or ideas just ramping up to something really interesting, the truest reflection of myself at the time, before being abandoned and left untouched for months, if at all. I can see myself there, in those moments before abandonment, knowing exactly what the feeling I’m describing is, presuming that the future me will follow along too, always forgetting how quickly change comes.
I haven’t written about who or where I am for a while. It’s a lot of outward reflection lately, observation rather than introspection. But that’s quite nice. I think that, being a comfortable hermit, there’s a danger with looking at yourself too intently; as Alan Watts said: “when all you do is think, you have nothing to think about but thought itself” — where the thinker becomes the sole subject of thought. I reckon I’ve avoided that pitfall this time ’round, but a bit of self reflection is healthy, and postponing it for too long could easily become a crutch, where you’re so unfamiliar with looking inward that it feels like a chore, rather than something to be relished.
I’m glad I have this little blog now, a place for words that don’t require deep thinking, or careful edits to ensure the words fold neatly within themselves. I’m certainly grateful for all these words I’ve given myself. I won’t read them all, but the glimpses into pasts forgotten are more than enough to make me thankful for what they are.
It’s crazy to think that all this started from a single blog, half my life ago, on a site I probably can’t even remember — my entire life ago, really, considering how anything further back than that feels as familiar as a dream, not quite me, just memories of memories that might not even be my own… I know I had words on Myspace, and Xanga too, I’ve searched for them before but found nothing, I wouldn’t even know what they were called anymore.
I think it was a trend, having a Myspace and writing posts. I remember (on a minor tangent:) a young lad I worked with years ago in a coding job, they said they got into development from an older family member who gave them a programming book and said, basically, here you go, give that a read. And that little moment set the direction for the rest of their life.
I suppose I’m the same with these blogs, though I’ve never written professionally, which has probably helped shaped whatever voice I have in my words now. It’s always personal, it’s always purely me. Not catering to anyone else, no outside pressures. I couldn’t write for a company or a column if I tried. I’ve never been good with deadlines or fulfilling obligations, and I write because I love to write what I write about, and it happens when the words inside me feel too vibrant to let go of.
I do enjoy writing for a particular person though, as in, with them in mind as the reader — it’s still my own feelings, and if I could physically write non-stop then those words would no doubt come out eventually, but it’s really nice to have that motivation. A purpose, a reason not to give in to the nagging restlessness always inside me, the constant desire to seek a new novelty. It’s a puzzle to solve: Not in trying to make someone think a certain way, but to find the right combination of words that adequately communicate how I feel about something in a way that clicks with them. Maybe share an approach that made sense for me, take them by the hand and show them my experience, maybe there’s some deep and meaningful realisation for them somewhere in there, but I think, mainly, it’s just fun to share stuff.
And I think also, like any form of self expression, there’s so much you can learn about yourself here. When you’re chatting with someone, there’s an ebb and flow that you ride along together, but it’s a joint venture; and when you think alone, there are hard-worn loops and limits that can make new discoveries a bit difficult. But when you write, it’s almost like dancing by yourself, moving along with this invisible music, a melody of insights and emotion.
I think I’d call myself a hobbyist writer. But I have decided, with certainty, that I am indeed a writer now. I think it was having that purpose that did it, although I suspect that a writer is made in those first moments when you look back on your words and check the flow of your song.