Fading.

reblogged from the ch!cktionary:

To be honest, I hope I never feel compelled to write here again. It’s an artifact from a time when I was unsure about many things, most of all my worthiness of being loved. Years from now, whether we work out or not, I don’t want to read about Patrick. I’m certain of that much. If we’re still together, then this version of him will seem like such a distant representation of who he later becomes. And if we’re not, then I don’t want anyone — least of all myself — reminding me that I was once in love. Living it will have been enough.

I wonder sometimes, those of you out there, that don't keep journals or blogs or diaries or pictures, basically those of you that don't have the time or inclination to jot down memories - how much more freer you are. I have a tendency to use writing to clear my head, to do something with permanence. So that I have a way to look back and...self-analyze, reflect and also be able to relive memories. But sometimes, actual, awkward memories keep us in states of stagnation that we need not be.

This has been why, since X., I've been a lot more careful about writing about guys. Almost because I don't want to jinx relationships I've been in. And because, these guys usually don't know about me writing blogs and I don't think they should be as privvy to my mental state as uh...the rest of the interwebs is. Don't ask me why.

But the counter to that is, I don't always remember the amazing things that happened - so every memory is a tad hazy. The motion of lips against hands, sea air on a pier, purple sarongs and Italian American fairs...start to go away. But is that where they're supposed to be?