Let's shout into the void.
current mood: stressed
I'm not even going to look through my old posts. I feel like I've come home to pick through a long deserted attic. Everything I owned's all boxed up and I don't have to open a thing to know it's all dated and vaguely embarrassing, like Beanie Babies and troll dolls, like last decade's lightest pop music, like being just out of my teenage years and sporadically miserable and sporadically talented.
I'm well out of my teen years. But I'm still sporadic.
My friends page, pretty dead. People I knew personally long-departed. Only posts I'm seeing are the big public ones made by artists and authors I admired and still do. I don't expect much movement back here. People move on. Tumblr and Twitter and Facebook and your various independent blogs maintained apart from the steady, codified ebb and flow of watching and being watched.
I sporadically enjoy blogging. I used to enjoy it more. Back before I got concerned with platforms and social marketing and that killed it for me. You know how it is. Books and lists and buzzfeeds and what-have-you about how to achieve success through slotting A into B and keeping it up at a rate of C. How to turn raw material into commodity, and we are all raw material, friends.
Eh, I'm not here to say that success is inauthentic (nothing could be more sour grapes) or that there's nothing to be said for a talent and a fervor for marketing. I just, me, personal-like, gotta do this for love or not at all.
So hello. How've you been. How've you been.