11 May 2009


I can't do it.
I can't just post a ranting post and disappear.
I was so pissed off I didn't even twitter about it. It is a blemish.

So here's my real post for today.

I noticed my writing has gotten somewhat more elaborate. Being a nervous little creature, this made me wonder: do I sound cocky?
Because I used to.

I re-read my old diary from when I was 15/16.
I was young, and kind of unhappy (miserable), and thought a lot of myself. As a very wise man once put it: "I am not young enough to know everything." Well, at that point, I was convinced I knew a whole lot.
I was a melodramatic whino, really.

Meet 16-ish-year-old Sado, not yet using that name (which, by the way, is an inside joke and doesn't mean I'm into hardcore BDSM), all goffik and "intellectual".
I could show you a picture... but I won't.

I'm torn between laughing and crying when I re-read those pretentious, long drawn sentences. I re-read them occasionally, a page at a time because that's all I have the balls for.

My point here (yes, I have one! Don't look at me like that!) is that sometimes - actually, more often than not - we look back on our smug old selves and are embarrassed. I still haven't written any poetry since that time.
(I was told it was good.
E, The Cousin and I were in constant disagreement over whose was better.)

That feeling of embarrassment for the smug sentences of my 16-year-old self make me wonder: will I be embarrassed likewise, when as a 25- or a 30-year-old I look back on my writing of today? I think I will. Is that a bad thing? I'm not sure. I mean, it does indicate growth, doesn't it? Even if just a little. Nevertheless, it's not a fun feeling, mostly because suddenly, you're convinced that at the time, everybody was laughing at you behind your back.
Which triggers the paranoid idea that people are laughing at you behind your back now, when you think you're not so ridiculous anymore.

Or is that just me?

I should just let go.
This blog is one of the first things I've written in about 3 years. No more poetry (even though I can assure you it was all teenage angst), no more stories, no more novels.
I think about writing sometimes, but I'm not sure I have a good story to tell.
The only story I do have is my own, and I'm not always sure how to look upon it. Furthermore, will people want to hear it? Will they want to take time to read about it?

Vanilla Tea was made as a try-out, to see if I still got it. The magical, metaphorical it. And more to the point, if I did, whether or not I could keep up with it.

I think my 30-something-th post proves that I'm alright for continuance. It's a habit now, which is good.
Can I deal with a story? Do I tell my own, and if so, how and in what light? Do I tell someone else's? Isn't that stealing?
I read a lot, but can I write?

And more importantly: If I write something, will I be ashamed of it later on?

Just asking questions is all.

Sweet dreams, loves.


  1. It's the journey, you know? Embrace that sixteen year old self, and your twenty year old self, and whoever you become at thirty and forty. That journey, looking back, is a fascinating process, and well-worth documenting.

  2. You are who you are today because of that angsty 16 year old self.

    And you do not sound cocky in your writing on this blog.

  3. I threw my diary from when I was 15 away one year ago, I was so ashamed...