Looking Glass

Today, I have been through the looking glass.

It wasn't really about the clicks, it wasn't really about the content, it wasn't really about the comments. Except it was and it is and even now it will be. You don't know who I am and even after four years you have no idea except a little bit, except a lot of it. But not all.

I remember you and I remember a lot. And it's like it all happened and the in-jokes are there but no laughter is heard. It's kind of like a dream and it's kind of like a history but it's also kind of like reading a book and never getting to meet the characters. And it kind of makes me sad and it kind of makes me happy and if I look too closely it's not really real.

But it is there, and there are people. Because it's not fiction, it's true stories and these characters aren't formed from imagination, they really exist. I think it's possible to forget that in all the descriptive paragraphs - blogs lend themselves so well to giving an account of life more colourful than the experience itself - if you can't see it, you need the words to put the detail in and it's hard to separate, to think of these personalities as actual people, especially if you never even see their faces...

Why would you read this? It's the raw honesty dressed up in flowery prose. It's the mystery that remains after such a long while; I keep my mask firmly on, though sometimes I peek from beneath it unexpectedly. But most of the time, it's just the holes for eyes. And the eyes are the window to the soul. So you may not know me, who I am, what I'm like after three shots of vodka and a bottle of wine but you know what I think and feel more than many others. It's odd that it should be that way, but that's how it is, you know. Sometimes, it's just easier to write. Just to let it out. Just to let it go.

Happy 4th Birthday, Flix

On the jukebox: Anna Nalick ~ Drink Me