Sometimes I do stupid things. Like, really stupid. Like, going back to a DeviantArt account I first made in 2006 and hadn’t really done anything on since 2011.
All my stuff is still cleaned out. Well, all my art, poetry, and prose. My journal entries, my comments, and my notes that I once exchanged with a host of friends, many of which I’d known personally at the time (an alien concept to me today, where almost all my friends are exclusively online relationships) are all preserved (up to a point in 2006, anyway) in perfect detail.
Unexpectedly, I found myself combing through years of journals and correspondance. DeviantArt, as it turns out, has done double duty, and also now serves as a time capsule of who I used to be, years before an identity crisis that lasted YEARS and led to a number of personas that all interacted with the world in different ways — even my friends at that time had noticed something was SERIOUSLY UP.
After that identity crisis, I was never quite able to piece back together what had broken so severely. I’m almost fundamentally a different person now compared to then.
Growing up happens — I’m obviously not a teenager anymore. But that’s not all of what happened. What also happened is that I just… I broke, as a person. On every level. It took me 2 years to really become stable, and I never really became functional again *gesticulates wildly at a professional career that hasn’t achieved anything of note since 2008*. I broke, and when I broke, I did it spectacularly.
I bring this up because if I had remembered this account… I don’t think the damage would have been as bad. I at least would have had some sort of record of the person I’d been, going from my teenage years and into my early twenties. I could have looked at that. Analyzed it. Decided what I wanted to do with that information. And maybe, just maybe, I might have been able to put Humpty-Dumpty back together again in a much more cohesive and useful and fuctional fashion.
I regret that I forgot about this time capsule, this treasure trove that has no value to anyone but me.
All the silly-stupid exchanges. All the fanboying. The staying up into the bitter hours of the morning defending Lucrezia’s actions in Final Fantasy VII (yes, this was a thing I did, and yes, I got really into it as only a teenager could) against my friend Duncan’s accusations. (He did not like her. With age comes perspective, and I can really see why now. So Duncan, if you happen to stumble across this blog for some reason, well, you win you trenchcoated motherfucker. You win.)
I miss all of that, and all the art. I miss producing a never ending font of art, being it drawings, poetry, or prose. I still write, but I’ve since stopped drawing entirely and I regret that deeply. And even when I write, it’s nowhere as often or as deep. Granted, most of my poetry was emo back in the day, but there a rawness that comes with that formula that could have informed me about who I was even better.
Honestly, I don’t even know if I’m going anywhere with this. I may not actually get to a point at all. But I’ll be looking through my old stuff, all those old correspondences, and looking up the people I used to know there, with most of their accounts being similarly inactive and buried like mine was. I wonder if they have kept their notes and comments too, or if they casually deleted them all, not aware of their potential future value? I for one will be meticulously combing these records though, looking for who I was. Because I miss that person, and while I can never go back to being that person, I can, at the very least, incorporate a little more of that into who I am now.
Thanks for putting up with my slightly emo…. what exactly is this anyway? Moaning? Bellyaching? Existential rambling? Thanks for reading, and putting up with my slightly emo whatever-the-hell-this-is.
Keep being cool.