The very few of you who have stumbled across this page are, I can only hope, the very few who still enjoy my company. If so, by all means, pull up a chair, because this is probably the only contact I can offer you with my own self for quite some time now (all will be explained below, fret not).
SZF is no longer home, but merely a resting place. You can expect to find me sleeping on its living room floor on many a Sunday morning, but expect no more than just that. I'll be frequenting the art and literature section, offering advice and raving over whatever talent I might find. Other than that, expect silence. Gone is the political activist soul who sang protest songs from the corners and margins. Gone is the self-defeatist idealist conflictist who everybody grew so tired of so quickly.
Here is what is left of that girl you all used to know.
I'm fifteen years old now, as always younger than my mentality seems to suit. I've lost a very important person this year, and the chasm he left in my life has shrunken somewhat, but is still very much present. I write songs on my bedroom floor and I record them with friends intimately, almost in secret. We also perform them at the odd town function, sometimes to applause and other times to silence, but never in vain, I think. I draw - oh, do I draw. I scribble on paper after paper, and when I finally find mself proud of one of my drawings, I transfer it to canvas and glob on the acrylics, sometimes skipping entire nights of sleep for fear I lose my inspiration, my insight, overnight.
I travel a lot, and that's what you can expect most from this journal. In addition to photos and diary entries about each new city or country, I will also supply links to my conquests online. New songs, peices of art, or maybe just an author I happen to adore. Anything and everything.
You will grow bored of me, but I don't care. I've lost my place and I need a new one, and this journal happens to be cozy.
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