Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Age builds up and I continue to rely on others to give myself worth and meaning. I offer myself up to far too many and find myself alone in my small house with one other who fights himself to tolerate me. I find myself alone in my small room listening to the same things I was listening to ten years ago and being similarly if not more so moved by the brilliance of Bob. I've been reading old blogs- nearly 10 years old- and I balk at the brilliance, at how much I love the girl that I was and how smart and lovely and caring and deep she once was and I see, now, brighter than I've seen before, how I need to become her again, how I need to need to write, how I need to love to write and how I need to try to write and write no matter how much I think I've failed. I see all these things I wrote before and at the time I found them absurdly trivial and shallow and as though I was writing just to write but looking back after so many years, I am so glad that I wrote all that and so glad that it still exists despite my completely ignoring it for ten years. All hail the interwebs.

And I listen to music that I heard first from Walker thirteen years ago now and it sounds equally as important as it did the first time I heard it. I knew then that all this music would change my life because it was changing my life as I heard it and I knew that I had this extremely emotional, visceral connection to what I was listening to.