That was the day I discovered Open Diary. I cataloged over a thousand entries into that particular journal, almost recording the entirety of my teenage years in a single location. But life eventually got to me, as it always does eventually, and I realized that nobody gave a fuck, and neither did I. My entries became self-loathing, misanthropic, and damn near apocalyptic. Upon reflection, the diary could appear as an origins story for the newest Batman villain. So yeah, I was disturbed.
My writing all but ceased the past few years. I scattered blogs about the internet willy-nilly, their contents as chaotic and confusing as the years that followed. I had once been sure of my place in the world, but numerous failed relationships, an especially disturbing one-night stand, and my diminished place in society took their toll on me. I no longer knew what anything meant anymore. Or if anything had meaning at all. I didn't even have the energy to be angry.
I am now a shell of a person.
But if anything's worth writing its one man's attempt to discover his soul, right? I sure hope so, because I'm fucking writing it anyway.
Always uncomfortably personal,
Mk
