Meanwhile, Eric ponders the meaning of his identity.

Honesty with these electronic diary entries is essential if I'm entertaining any notions of journalistic accuracy here. Without a topic in mind, I will attempt to write and get the urge to write out of my system. Lord knows it's counter-productive (and counter-interesting) to the extreme.

Something in the wind recently has been craving instant gratification in terms of solidifying the coming chapters of my life, and it seems unlike the usual progression of things. I am usually pretty patient when dealing with my life, but some internal switch has been turned. Maybe this is the point in my life when I am supposed to be feeling this urgency, the point where I'm supposed to get off my disgusting ass and do something about my wayward life. Rarely do I take the reigns of my life, and I think I'm supposed to now.

I've known this for years but have not been developed enough to do it until now. I was supposed to dither, to drink, to destroy. It was all an essential part of the developmental process.

And hopefully something good will come from all this single-minded devotion to development that's currently clouding my vision.

Meanwhile, Eric ponders the meaning of his identity.

My first journal entry on this site finds me in the state I am usually in when writing, which is ponderous. The evening usually provides the best state of mind for this sort of thing, perhaps because one is able to reflect on the day and how it fits into the bigger picture. But enough introduction.

The topic on my mind this evening is my waning intelligence. Over the course of the years I feel I've let myself go in terms of honing my intelligence. Like an out of practice guitarist I am no longer able to coax the melody out of life that I once had no problem conjuring. Sure, the tune may be the same, but the intricacies are no longer. I was once a stellar mind (if I can remember correctly, which I probably cannot, and am simply romanticizing the past to which I can't return for verification), but now I find myself blockaded behind an impenitrable wall of ennui most of the time. This does me no good.

If I had to attribute the construction of this metaphorical wall to anything, I'd say it was a result of my subconscious attempting to deal with social interaction. I've always been monstrously shy to the point of having some sort of personality disorder, and I never liked that I couldn't have fun with people. I always considered myself too far removed from normal to fit in. So (I'm guessing) in an effort to shut my stupid brain off I constructed this wall to separate me from my thoughts, which did the trick but worked far too effectively.

And now, years later, I am a stranger to others and my own brain as well. Had I known the outcome of these theoretical actions I never would have gone through with them. I miss my brain, I miss cohesive thought, and I chiefly miss sharing those thoughts and additional shit with others.

So, most recent computer journal, I need to open everything up again. And in the highly likely event that the aforementioned wall was built up to protect me from my Emotions rather than my thoughts, then it still must come down. I am ready to face myself again, and if I am not ready then I am going to face myself anyway. I am fully aware of who I used to be, but I'm not terribly certain about the me I am today. I've always just assumed that I am an older version of the previous me, but perhaps it's more complex than that. Lord knows I've been through much over the years. All this stuff needs to be properly documented, properly experienced, properly cogitated, and properly felt.

And who better to do all that than me?