I get a funny feeling whenever I click the link to this blog. I'll click the link, watch the page load (sometimes instantly, if I'm lucky and my connection isn't being a finicky chump), and then just stare. I don't really read the words I write. It gets too embarrassing.

I'd let myself read a sentence here or there though, just so I can recall the general gist of the post. I've written so few here that I can somewhat recall the majority of what I've made public here.

Every single post makes me want to delete this entire blog. Instant cringing, raging desire to smash my head against the nearest, hardest object. I feel the same way whenever I occasionally glance through old photos of myself up on Facebook—hideous, terrifying; everything must burn!

Yet it's undeniable that every post here expresses some aspect or fragment of a younger me. Whether I like it or not. I usually wrote and posted during my peak points of erratic, volatile madness, with occasional brief and blithe posts to pad and soften the edges. It's hard trying to determine the right balance between being honest and being embarrassing.

One day, when I can muster the courage to do so, I'll sit down and read through every single post I made here, thoroughly and carefully. I have changed since I started this blog, and I have ebbed and flowed by all accounts in all aspects. In many things, I am happy with myself as I am now, in others, I wish to reclaim the virtues of the Me of the past.

I imagine most people are like this. They march forth in life, shedding old faults and learning new ones, polishing skills and virtues and forgetting some others. And most are filled this sort of half-satisfaction, half-regret. Or maybe I am one of the few still mourning a past, one that never really existed beyond the barriers of my biased memories.

I think one day, I will close this blog and make it private for myself.