12.21.04 - 1:23 a.m.
Mondro quit but came back again. Cosmo's quitting, maybe for good. These journals burn out.
For me, it started out without expectation of audience-- who'd read this shit? But then a miniscule audience formed, friendships, nebulous, but undismissible. Putting aside cool, I like imagining that you are reading these words. Whoever you are, when and wherever... I like to think we connect.
But I understand why people quit. The more people who read your words, the less you can say. I can't write about work anymore in an honest way, because people from work read this. I can't write about Az.-- I've been down the road of relationships discussed on the web, and it's dark and fraught with danger. She agreed early on not to read this-- and admirably, I don't think it's a struggle on her part. But if she read it, I think she'd be surprised and hurt by how little I mention her. She might not understand that this is by design. You have to keep secrets secret.
But the secrets are what interest me. Sex. Tics. Drugs. Unethical behavior. Unwarranted fears.
If I were a real writer, what would I write about? They say write what you know, but I don't think you care so much about what I know. I can tell you the fastest way to iterate through an STL container. I can tell you what it's like to come on crystal meth. I can tell you what's it's like to worry that memories will always outweigh presence. Are we all unbridgeable islands? Are we all fated to imprisonment in our own consciousness? The past could sustain for infinity; you keep zooming in, and in.
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