Blogging killed my journaling skills

Listening to Michelle Branch reminds me of that 16 year old, far more creative, inspired, and optimistic me. the me who picked up the guitar and would write songs with only 4 chords (usually, G, Em, C, D, and occasionally F). the me who was a founding member of Clear Path (would-be radio hit: Mutated Potato). when i journaled, not blogged. the days when i didn’t eat so much or feed an unhealthy addiction to the internet. when i still loved taking pictures. when the only clothes i wore were designed as i ran out the door and ended up being awesome. the nights i’d lay crying in a circle of candles on a hard wood floor and was secretly happy to be being poetic. friday nights we got pizza and watched adult swim and making fun of movies on axn. when i would pack a toothbrush on the weekends because i didn’t know where i’d end up sleeping. when i had regular deep discussions on south american literature and haunted powerbooks for the newest allende book. when Jesus sustained me through little joys that i actually noticed.

before i reached that age where i learned to get angry at incompetence, bad music, and differing theology. before dancing was a sin. before i noticed that make-up wasn’t just for the weekend and bought clothes that cost more than 50 pesos. that most teenage creations pale and are criticized with good reason. before i learned that people let you down and you’re not supposed to forgive them. that people say “friends off” and mean it. that things actually change. that we need to be responsible. that you could miss a place so much you always resented. and the people we once loved get married to other people.

and it hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time.