I used to write a lot on MySpace. It's all just about gone now.

The MySpace blog was likely the best documentation of all that was wrong with me in my twenties. My time before then had been spent being accidentally oblivious to the world, but this decade was instead wrought with anxiety and alcohol when faced with this realization.

I am better now.

I wrote this ten years ago.


There is a certain moment in time when the night is winding down and you don't want to head back from whence you came just yet because it just feels like there should be something more. Nothing concrete, really, but at that point, it seems like the entire night has built up to one elusive moment and it hasn't happened yet and you don't have an inkling about what it might concern. It's a gaping wide vagueness, and if you leave, you'll pass it up, and you'd never be able to live it down, knowing that you missed that certain experience.

So you stay. You stall. You wander around and make idle conversation, attempting to luck into that fateful bridge towards whatever it is that is destined to happen. You see certain opportunities to what might be the right path, but they all lead to dead ends. The wandering goes on.

In all your awkward absence of glory, you look to the sky and grow more tired, but never want to close your eyes for good. Blink and you'll miss it, and you can't have that.

But it never comes.

And eventually, as the sun begins to rise, you give up. Again stalling with half-mumbled goodbyes then stumbling back to where you should have been hours ago, you lie in bed, light pouring through the window, and wonder what you've been doing all this time. And if there ever was a moment to wait for, and if there ever will be. And you can't even begin to fathom what kind of a moment it would be, if it would one day suddenly exist, or what you'd do if it appeared.

You fall asleep, waking up a scant few hours later, with a melancholy feeling of loss for something unexplainable that you never had in the first place.


black sea

One clear night while the others slept, I climbed the stairs to the roof of the house and under a sky strewn with stars I gazed at the sea, at the spread of it, the rolling crests of it raked by the wind, becoming like bits of lace tossed in the air. I stood in the long whispering night, waiting for something, a sign, the approach of a distant light, and I imagined you coming closer, the dark waves of your hair mingling with the sea, and the dark became desire, and desire the arriving light. The nearness, the momentary warmth of you as I stood on that lonely height watching the slow swells of the sea break on the shore and turn briefly into glass and disappear…

Why did I believe you would come out of nowhere?

Why with all that the world offers would you come only because I was here?

-Mark Strand