(I found this on an old disk. Seemed fitting)
This is for you.
Once upon a time I used to be a writer. While the memories of my previous life appear a bit hazy now, I have dusty piles of paper and digital files still chained to me.
1 LiveJournal .
1 Xanga.
2 Blogspots.
2 dozen unfinished notebooks.
Countless scraps of paper and napkin scribbles.
Is the tread really worth continuing?
You could argue that I’ve always know exactly who I am and what my limitations were/are.
You could argue that in projecting that, I’ve also refused to move.
Call it panic, call it February in MI, call it whatever you want.
Haven’t I said all this before?
You could argue that I’ve never been and never will be completely content.
For a long time I’ve worried I was one of those wretched people that that could never be happy.
In the end, I’ve found I’m just as I always was; a cynical optimist.
“I gave up me to find you”
It was worth it. He is there every day reminding me I’ve exceeded my own expectations.
Too much support. Not enough demand. The majority of the people I find myself surrounded by are the ones I idolize.
You could argue that I’m too harsh, too mean or too curt.
They are there to remind me I am only human and I am there to remind them to find a focus in their dreams.
You could argue I’m coming off pompous.
