I find that as I grow older I only grow stranger, I find myself grasping on to the idea of boyhood like it's a vine on a cliff named Soon-to-Be Twenty. It's not a question of being afraid of maturity or responsibility, but trying to hold on to wonder, to magic. I may be clever, but I certainly hope that in the face of the universe I'll stay a child, constantly dazzled by the new.
I've been mostly off computers and reading much more, writing more in stolen moleskine journals, writing letters to no one on bathroom stall walls. I read "Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance" by Robert M. Pirsig and "Just Kids" by Patti Smith (and fell in love with Robert Mapplethorpe by doing so), I found a deck of Tarot cards which I'm somewhat able to read. I don't really do drugs anymore, except the odd occasion in which they creep back in in the form of almost-empty vials or chance offerings.
Oh, and I'm still in love with the same boy, and he'll be going away soon and when he comes back he will hold me in unbruised arms. Being with him was either the worst decision or the best decision I could make.
I've been quiet and living here in my own little world lately, locked up in winter. The snow and cold suffocate me in the winter months, I get a little lonely. But I'm okay. ☆