I used to write

I used to write here. When I was happy. When I was sad. When I was confused. When I loved. When I hated. When I was angry. When I wanted to die.

What became of me? I'm not really sure. I don't feel like I have changed, and yet I feel so different than who I was before. I feel like the me that was and the me that is are two people, friends, or lovers maybe, who have shared a common history for so long now that they use each other's phrases and cite the same experiences in a language that no one else understands.

I am going to shock any potential non-existent readers who might still lurk here once in awhile right now:  I am happy with who I am. I am a talented, smart, clever, fun, interesting, and yes, even sexy individual with so much to live for. Even now, when my life that is seems to be a fraction of my life that was. I still have the most important things in my life close, and even when they are not close, they are never far from my thoughts.

I have accepted myself, O my droogs and only friends; flawed, disturbed, emotionally damaged, in a word; fucked-up. But me. Imperfect, but fully equipped with the talents and tools necessary to be who I want for all the right reasons.

I need to visit this little bit of my space on the world wide web more often. I need to offer it more of my love and time and effort. I feel I might have healed from the last few years sufficient to begin to pay attention to this sapling I have nurtured and watered and loved, for better or worse, yet again.

I leave you, the old, or maybe new, or maybe truly rather than self-deprecatingly, non-existent readers with this one last thought:  the things that were always completely important to me have been and still are.

Darth Sardonic