Over the years, I've sort of "built" the personality portrayed in my journal. Some might say that it is a reasonable facsimile of the actual person behind the writing. For all I know, it may be more accurate than the person I believe myself to be. After all, I am, if nothing else, my own harshest critic. Still, I don't feel I'm completely fair with the people who read this journal because the "me" that is portrayed here isn't entirely true. There are things I don't say because some things aren't shared with the general public. There are things I don't say because they'd complicate things more than they already are. There are some things I don't say simply because I don't know how to put them into words. There are several million words in the english language, and yet I often find that none of them can express what I feel.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to make mention of anniversaries that it'd be wholly inappropriate for me to even mention. Sentimentality is a curse that I afflict upon myself, like some self-flagellating Catholic freak. Worse than the anniversaries I remember are the ones I've forgotten. Those hurt me deepest because they tend to mean more to me. It's probably not right to send out cards as a reminder of those days. Lucky me, I rarely remember to send birthday cards, much less send cards celebrating good times long past.
She was beautiful, but she didn't mean a thing to me...
melancholy