tequila(?)

been meaning to write here for a couple of days now. I'm glad there are only ten blog posts, 40,960 characters; I don't intend on deleting anything, so it makes me choose my words.

I intended to make this account a perpetual WIP, but after getting the custom cursor to work (thank you y2k), I can't bring myself to change a thing. I've spent hours just sitting and staring at my page. not out of egoism or pride-I didn't do anything impressive or creative-but because I've made a little corner of peace that is simultaneously personal to me yet separate from anything I've done.

in short, this page is a relic of my growing up, a snapshot of a teenager put into HTML via lossy compression. the imagery comes from posters, projects, and basements. the warm months of 2014 were the first and last time I was myself, and I've scrubbed pixels and scoured pages to bring something back from then, utterly unaware of what I'd find. I made an ode to the past and received a reply.

I'm an avid scrapbooker, records keeper, and memory holder; I am no stranger to curated, applied nostalgia. this site, however, is different. on tumblr, it was a corner of my own, but one that I was continually and wholly present in. the me you encountered on tumblr was a real time, server-side person. I followed personal diatribes with mindless comments on ramen noodles and camisado; my tumblr presence was conversational, a fitful stream of meta-consciousness. you may have been lonely, but you were never alone. tumblr was a place to be, and ultimately, a place to leave.

here, though, personage is different; presence isn't required. for many of the pages here, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and existence alone is an enduring expression. not expressions of people, though; of people, there are only glimpses. sure, I may write long ass posts, but no significant degree of personality comes across, no human connection. wisdom may help, but there's only so much to tease out from these blogs. getting everything down only gets you where you started. rather, we're self-replicating graffiti, clinging to the wall while commentating on our own oblivion; there's nothing more to we than the strokes you read and paint you see. what do you see?
https://64.media.tumblr.com/cd40ae0e7dbae896774bcae37650d912/tumblr_pcuvhduj191tvmbxgo1_1280.jpg