for the times spent in my parents' basement, typing, fingers without circulated blood. this is for the teenager and her way to go.

dear diary, dear diary.

where do i start?

it's been a few years since i last kept an honest, open or direct relationship with you. i found solace in my dirty, stained notebooks instead. on paper, ink covered. tired and alone in the cafes.

and yet here i am, still me. fears, insecurities, vices holding fast to my soul. or, at other times, shed off like an animal's coat in preparation for the new season. i am still me, always.

nostalgic tonight. drinking strong chamomile, this music floats and allows me to move freely above time and its limitations. van sings it, and the melody is tranquil and almost meditative but his voice won't let you go, pulls you back from your drift. it's like entering an emotional dream.

my whole life has been an audition for a role i never cared for, trying to act an age i never felt inside. the truth is i once was a child who awoke one morning acutely aware of everything that was wrong with the world and humanity. i woke up old, as if i had already experienced a lifetime without having gone through the motions. i had been, up to this point, trying to fight that reality. sad about being inherently sad. feeling my depressive emotions were warranted for a war veteran alone, i kept tabs and observed the world. writing down notes on what it is to be like others. how does a girl act? how does a teenager behave? now, replay.

because of this, i can't help but feel a little sick when i come back here. the voice of this diary was never really me, but a desperate projection of what i thought i ought to be. yet my fight and denial against who i really was is so evident in these entries, it holds just as much significance to the overall story.

this place is actually like a ghost town. aside from the fact that it's deserted and none of my old cyber friends write here anymore, it's trapped in time. like an abondoned building which will not be torn down or renovated. keeping haunting spirits confined to this small place, in the same self-form before their death. i mean, i can't change some of my preferences, i am stuck with a lot of my old settings but i am still allowed the liberty of moving forward with a new entry. like a ghost trying to find some purpose in its movements.

i don't know where i am going with this. i am jetlagged, thinking of my past, awake at odd hours of the day and in a state of contentment. i've long ago accepted my own defeat, and have been basking in the liberation of that. once you stop ignoring the good fight and understand that you cannot control your win, then you are able to truly experience moments of genuine and pure joy.

i'm not saying to be attached to pain and misery, let go of it, but in the process understand that it is beyond inevitable but actually necessary. it brings you closer to what is real and counts.

i will never win, but i can experience tastes of victory while trying. and it's all worth it.