I am enjoying my return to this blog. Back when I was still writing on the Xanga platform, I wondered how much of my fun came from the act of writing Vs the thrill of receiving feedback from people I didn’t know IRL.

Certainly it was both, but I no longer doubt how much I just enjoy writing. No one is here and it feels special. A little magical. Like throwing some quiet thoughts far out into the universe where it’s unlikely they will be seen, but knowing they’re out there.

I contrast this feeling to what it’s like after scrolling Reddit for 20 minutes. Social media joy is bursty and transient. It’s a candy binge, fun moment to moment but ultimately empty with gross residue.

Honest, self-reflective writing feels more like a well rounded meal. Your brain is engaged, not just a passive shit consuming lump. It feels nutritious. Even bad writing confirms that you still have the capacity to string together your own hazy thoughts.

Yesterday, I was reading my old 2005 entries, oscillating between wanting to melt with embarrassment, to astonished pride at the writing and who I was then. So unintentionally quirky and earnestly striving. Stressed to the max and making so many mistakes yet showing great perseverance and grit as I swam in chaos and doubt. I owe so much to that struggling confused kid. I am so happy I have that writing back to read almost twenty years later.