The Softer Side of Dynasty

When I was back at (name withheld, gee this is hard).net, I was a lot... angrier. My writing voice was sterner, surer, belittling, sarcastic and confident -- nay, arrogant. I had a large, anonymous fanbase. It was intense.

My blog now is extremely different. My best friend used to check on (name withheld).net compulsively, as did many of my readers. I used to update 5 or 6 times a day -- long, mind-raping ramblings with intense introspect and musings on society. I think they felt more confident coming to my page obsessively knowing that I did not have a counter, ticker, tracker, whatever the fuck. They were able to drink in my words and still maintain a quiet, voyeuristic role in my life.

I slapped and dragged my mental orgasms all along the wall. I was a textibitionist. My attitude is what made it so thrilling.

It's kind of fucked up that all of that is gone. This last year was an intense humbling experience for me, and I'm not sure I can pull that arrogance back into my life like that. I miss it, excruciatingly so. And I know I'm not alone.

Even the fact that I'm no longer the "Master of my domain," demurely hosted by such a well-known, generic blog site... (withheld).net was MY moniker, MY government, MY reality... it speaks upon where I am in life today. What was on that page defined my world. Now, I struggle to find words to define my life. It's difficult.

I don't feel too huge of a loss. Granted, my writing was undeniably better when it had that inflated confidence pushing out the bravest, wildest of my imaginations. Something happened where I was forced to grow up and accept my position in life, and a part of me will always be glad I did. Maybe it's all for a reason.

I'm sorry if you find yourself disappointed when you come across this site, most likely found through some venn diagram collision of worlds, if you recognize me in all this and feel like I've "fallen off." I haven't. I've rearranged.

My readers now, the hunger they profess now, are here for different reasons. A year ago, I expressed the witty, take-no-prisoners, sarcastic "Strong Young Female" side of themselves they wanted to be. Now, I touch upon the conlicted, vulnerable, progessing parts of themselves they're not sure how to express.

I'm down with that. To fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go -- don quixote up in this motherfucker -- but, in all reality, I'm an otherwise elusive container of human that is extremely in touch with her emotions, but never willing to confront, absorb or accept them. Suppression is so second nature with me, that this blog is a huge. Deal. I think that only those who are on the same boat as I am -- struggling, afraid, but aware of the unavoidable growth -- will relate to these words or even bother to sit through a rambling.

The brain fart I had recently, where the poetry sputtered out -- that fucked me up. I stopped thinking in strings after that, and came to exist in fragments. Everything to me is becoming a poem, and I haven't felt like that since my elating workshops at college a year ago. I miss art. I miss painting, I miss writing things that require sharp eyes and subtle deciphering; I miss writing things that insist upon your attention and demand you agree with me because I tricked you into it with sarcasm, and I want to learn how to fit the way my hips move into someone else's choreography. I want to be touched again, and this isn't cutting it for me.