My Blog is The Lonliest Place.

It’s true.
It was lost in the vast intervals of the Live Journal community.
Insignificant, unnoticed but ingenious; one of a kind.

I miss the days my bothered little mind conjured up ways to chase people away;
I was not afraid to be alone and not fit in.
Now I fall between the cracks to match that perfect mold of society.
Yet I do not belong.

My melancholy was a way to channel my expressive personality, my sprouting uniquality, which is now subdued.
I loved being strange, quiet and mysterious.
I was a fascination. Now I’m plain.
And yet people still find a trace of interest in me.

I want to shrink back to the time of loneliness,
but I can’t.
Some things never change: I don’t appreciate my current situation until
it is well out of sight; and when it is, I miss it while it’s beyond my grasp.

The things around me have dumbed me down. I have been my own demise in letting myself diminish. I used to evolve daily with my curiousity alone.
But 16, has passed like it never was but a vague, bewildering dream.

I wonder if my happiness had made me boring, if, surely, my loneliness made me odd. Would I trade it for my former identity?
Perhaps, but the key word here is ‘former’; it is then and not now, nor will it ever be.

Like my blog, lost in the vast intervals of time. Insignificant, vague; one of a kind.


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