Why don’t I write the way I used to?
Because, now, the people I write about read what I write, and my ill-thought-out overanalyzations, pseudo-intellectualist thoughts poured onto the page/screen more often hurt than lift up. Rarely — and you know when the opposite is the case — do I intend to seriously or bluntly or hurtfully criticize my friends and family in these entries (unless, as I said before, you can tell I’m ranting at someone). But who am I to question motivations or give lectures?
But I’m just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood
It takes one line for a person to be offended, pushed away, angered, saddened, disappointed . . . and the writing isn’t worth that. It’s not worth losing someone significant (screw the insubstantial people don’t like what I write) to me. Someone once said something along the lines of, “If you write honestly, expect to make enemies of your family and friends,” or, “expect to be hated.” (I don’t feel like doing any more of than the cursory search I did for that exact quote and source.) Is that worth it? Especially with people close to you?
That’s why most of my ranting is about politics or tech bros or other “nonsense.” Okay, it’s not nonsense, but it’s not what people expect to read from me. In fact, I’m not sure what people expect to read from me anymore. I can only assume it’s the same navel-gazing, late-teens and early-twenties taking-myself-and-every-reaction-to-me-too-seriously stuff I put out back then. Or maybe it’s the stories of drunken nights with John and others. Or the constant pining over ever-charging female targets of attraction.
I can certainly still become that person again — that groveling, constantly worried and seemingly clingy person. That may make for good writing (especially when the other person has little say in what’s written, as much as I may try to get his or her side across as well) but I don’t necessarily want to be that person again.
I can become that, but it seems much more difficult to be the person I was then when I wrote those things. My “hopeless romanticism” and considerable efforts to woo and failures — so many failures. I got up each time, dusted myself off while an increasing depression grew (in the shadow of undiagnosed OCD) in my mind and heart and moved forward (or, at least, moved on). And then I wrote about it. Or, more accurately, I wrote about the entire thing from beginning to end. And then one day after another failure I stopped just bitching and writing and started being an asshole.
I can’t keep up
Cause you’re so far gone
And it’s all too much hindsight
Three wasted years, wasting time
As the hunger pains grow inside
I want to get back to that former self, the kinder and passionate self — except with the knowledge I’ve gained over the years. (Misty deserves that.) As I’ve said, there’s no going back, and the only way out is through.
I’ll write. And I’ll write here. But it may not be what you want to read. Or you can tell me what you want to read here. That’d be a first.