I was bored and re-read some of my old posts, some of them gave me the shivers. I don't know, maybe it's just the way I sounded--kind of arrogant--the way teens or really young people who have not been touched by the world sounds. I don't know--maybe it's the certainty I have and the solid crystal clear worldview I could hold in my hand, but I slwly find melting as I grow older. That the world is not- a certain. It is not solid--it melts drips and is messy. Is it a bad case of self-loathing if I say, I hate the way I sounded? MAybe blogs are a good way to capture that--those thoughts, but not just those passing thoughts but they way every sentence is spoken by a 2-years ago me. And it scares me that I feel that me is so foreign and if that me would talk to me this very instant, I would hate that me.

Every sentence sounds like little shots-- angry shooting out against the world which refuse to solidify. Perhaps I knew it even back then, but just had too much ideal and the magic of being young to see that--that there was where my anger sprang from. OR maybe I wasn't even angry at all. Maybe this "anger" is just something I coloured on form hindsight--like those handtinted black and white pictures--with the artificial colours floating a little above reality--come at you from the place of dreams.

Old photos may scare you sometimes, but you don't hear them speaking their insides to you, all you see is the change on the outside, on your skin. But in there--that indefinable thing we call our selves, our being..sometimes when you get a testimony of that past version--it gives you the creeps--no it is not the passing of time or aging which scares you. It is what old people probably fear and feel all the time--just that slippage--where you come face to face with a use-to voice and that oivce is so much stronger and real then this slowly indefinable you. Perhaps the only moment when we were real, with a full substance is when we were born slowly our certain world and existence comes aprt--and we conllect shadows, and sometimes we turn invisible.