LiveJournal.

A friend of mine asked why I’m writing this blog. They wondered why I’d revert to text when it’s hard enough to get someone to watch a 10-second video. The world moves so fast, and no one has time to read anything longer than a tweet. But I’m not writing for attention. I’m writing to find something I’ve lost. I want to reconnect with a freedom in my writing that’s public but also a little closer to honest. I want to get into my own mess.

When I told my friend this, they kind of understood but didn’t get the nostalgia part. And then it hit me: They never knew the strange and cruel joy of LiveJournal.

At the turn of the century, there was something magical and terrifying about the screech of dial-up internet. That chaotic overture of your connection had you bracing for something, anything, to happen. It wasn’t just about connecting to the web, it was about connecting to the world in a way that felt both endless yet contained to 90 minutes because my mom would boot me off after then. You’d stare at your inbox, heart racing, praying for a little red heart next to your email. A sign of life. A message. Maybe from that kid in your class who suddenly got you. Meanwhile, you were out here, hunting for that dino eggs or trying to outdo your friend’s high score on the latest Tunami game. You’d tweak your MySpace page for hours, finding the perfect shade of green sparkle text to highlight some underground band or rapper that felt like yours before they hit the mainstream. Somehow every 10-year-old was an HTML god, fueled by the sound of a door opening to encounter another human and together sharing what nugget they found in the corner of the internet, because back then the world felt simultaneously larger and smaller.

I wrote in my LiveJournal, turned Tumblr, like it was my confessional. Deeply invested in sharing my YA dramatic poetry, playlists, and my top scores on Game Boy, today, I am the same (save the Game Boy. Now it’s DND). I keep thinking of that line from Reservation Dogs where one of the aunties talks about how she’s still the same girl she’s always been. She’s got all these grown-up “things” to do now, but deep down, she’s still that girl. And I feel that. Does adulting have to feel old? What can age feel like? Can we reacquaint ourselves with lost habits that were actually good for us, but grew lame in the shedding of adolescence? Can I be that dollz girl again?

What reason could I give to live
Only that I love you
How many times must I die for love
Only when I’m without you
Where will the clouds be
If not, if not in the sky
When I die?

You see, writing used to feel like I was reaching out into existence to be heard, hoping someone might find me, and just maybe, they’d see me and also think that D’angelo is god and that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is TV and monster-of-the-week excellence. And sometimes, writing still does feel like that, moslty when I am improvising, but hopefully here too. There’s a comfort in knowing that this mess—this constant sifting and re-sifting of thoughts, dreams, failures—can still feel like mine. And if you’re reading this, maybe it’s yours too.

So, yes, this blog can be many things, it may not hold most’s attention, but it is my attempt to shed the filter of whatever internet persona I’ve created and let you, the reader, see me. And I hope that as I write, I get more open with you and me. If someone does read this—hell, if anyone reads it—I hope they feel that too: that there’s space here to be whatever version of yourself you need to be. Maybe you’ll leave feeling seen. Or, more likely, we’ll both leave here with a bit more room to breathe.

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