A warning in Normal entries

I’m not entirely sure that reading ones own diary from three years back is a very good idea. It’s like looking up your moms skirt at her funeral, sure, look to the rock whence thou wert hewn and all, but Jesus H. on CATA. If Dorian Grey had been a real person I’m guessing he’d never go looking at his portrait. Never.

And OD is haunted; not just with my ghost but yours too. It’s still in beta testing so people seem to pop slowly into existence, the friend list changes, there are fucking notes from the dead. It’s like longing for the partner that broke your heart; painful and futile and ultimately leaving you limp and impotent to do anything about it.

Are there upsides? Sure, I guess. Stuff written for the medium doesn’t quite look at home elsewhere, like a Jackson Pollack in the basement of some English Church where knight are buried with embossed stones. It doesn’t make it look worse (um, if you liked it in the first place) but it sure as hell doesn’t make it look better. So, yeah, context is an upside. Prosebox is like an oasis in the desert. A beautiful and life saving place to come across, but you can’t live here.

I’m not leaving, Simple Mind is a gracious host, I’m coming as often as … as I have been. So far the only difference are the ghosts. I expect that to change. I think it won’t be free. I was gifted a lifetime membership. If I had paid for it I probably would be demanding my money back. It’s been gone over three years and wasn’t functioning well for two years before that. I kind of earned that free membership by being social and shit or anti-social to the right people. The artist last known as G insisted I come to prosebox, so I can’t leave.

Ok, this was meant as more of a warning than an entry. When you get the email, look before you leap, the shallows and the depths are sharp and jagged.