something purple

Oddly enough, I don’t remember my first public performance, although I remember clearly what happened before and after the performance. I believe I was in kindergarten at that time- in fact, that appears to be when most of my memories begin.

Sometimes I stumble across a blog. More often than not, these days, it’s been abandoned for years, a relic stuck in the era of background images and graphic skins. Now that’s something that I’ve missed in the era of social media, where somehow we’ve come full cycle from quick little message board updates to full online expression- pretty blogskins and sigs and avatars- you’re awesome if you know what I mean- and back to compressed feeds in the form of tweeting (or so I hear, twitter is becoming more popular than Facebook. I resisted the change from blogging to Facebook for pretty long, and I think I won’t be jumping to twitter any time soon. Not until they let me post longer and more substantial things. Everyone looks the same on social media- what happened to customizing your online home, and when did everyone move into these homogenized public housing apartments?)

Difference being that Facebook and blogs is that for Faceook, being ephemeral as it is, if I ever do abandon it, chances are, those years of my life will drift away leaving only memories. When I see abandoned blogposts, I can’t help but wonder what happened to these people and what they’ve done with their lives. Unfortunately, Facebook leaves a huge, gaping void in the history from privacy settings, if not the sheer laziness of having to dig through mounds of javascript without a decent search function. I suppose people have gotten over the novelty of leaving your life out in the open for everyone to see, now that it’s become so easy to do so, but I still think it would be nice to have an autobiography of sorts, to accompany your future self through the lonely journey ruminating through the memories.

The familiar faces I passed at the bus stop eluded me until the moment of recognition hit as the bus drove off. Not an ideal specimen of a social creature at the best of times, I’m afraid the early morning Monday blues after a month of absence plays shoegaze with my memories.

As suddenly as the rains come, they vanish with absolutely no trace; or at least made a rather absolute stand that they ought not to be seen in these parts any longer, and handed the new year to the days of sun and roses.

And so I may finally take my favourite jackets out of the cupboard where they have been biding their time away from the moss and mold and many manifestations of the damp and cold, whereby one may begin to question why I feel unbearably warm in a jacket on a rainy day whilst wearing it about to no perceivable discomfort under the bright blue sky; the answer, of course, being the absolute and natural phenomenon of atmospheric humidity.

Early Sunday morning and all was quiet in the house
Save the whirling of my laptop and the clicking of my mouse

(and rainymood.com)

Damn, I’m not making cookies hardcore enough.

The pitter-patter of rain blending into the tappity-tap of the keyboard and the scratchity-scratch of the pen.

I didn’t need people telling me what I can do, because I know what I can do (and for the uninitiated, my list of abilities is a long paragraphy laundry list).

I didn’t need people telling me how awesome I was, because I already knew I was, and yet I wouldn’t believe you if you told me how awesome I am (although a brazen statement of awesome is an awesome litmus test).

All I needed was to be appreciated for who I am, for who I was, to be defined as other than my ability, for someone to want to show off the real me and not to take pride in my dazzling awesomeness (oh Carl Rogers’ theory of Conditions of Worth all over again), but in the absence of one, I continued to strive on my lonely journey for perfection.

You wake up in the morning and the world has changed.