How long has it been since I've written in this block of white? Wow, how old school. I remember when I use to call it my 'block of white.'

I remember when I first was introduced to diaryland.com by an old best friend from philadelphia whom I don't talk to anymore. And I was young. 13? 14? The beginning of highschool? Maybe earlier.

God, it's been so long.

I never take time to stop and think about how much time has really passed. It's gone. In the past. And I can't get it back.

And that's okay.

I don't mind at all. It's just - wow - how old am I? Or how young am I? How much has changed or hasn't changed? It's like a different channel. on a different server. on a different page. of a different book.

And things are just - wow - can you believe this? I still write in this after 6 or 7 years or however much time has passed by without me knowing.

How much I use to care about writing. How much I use to care about what people thought about my writing. And how I thought the only thing that made me great was this. This block of white. These thougthts in digital font.

And - wow - it's crazy how much things change. And how much things stay the same. And I think about syntax and grammar. And how to make this pretty. And I laugh - because somethings realy don't change.

But, then they do.

Because it's different when I write. Can't you tell? Can't you tell it's different? The feeling? The syntax of these lines? The grammar. The passion.

It's all - wow - different.

Just like that. But, similar. Like an old friend you haven't seen in a while that has gained weight, and wrinkles, and a job. And things are different even though they are the same person. But not really the same person.

And then you compare the difference and similarities. And the fine line focuses in and out. And you're not sure if things are in fine print or blurry. Because, honestly, who can tell with black and white? And different shades of gray? And honestly, who care anymore?

Why do we define everything?

Why does it matter? If we don't know and things hurt and things are sad. And people don't know you and you are starting to know yourself. And eveything feels like paradox or an oxymoron.

And you title a playlist on your itunes with 'something new' and you end up downloading songs that you already know. And life's just ironic. Because it's new - the same way a good book is new if you haven't read it in a while. That kind of new.

And when you read it. It's familiar and nostalgic. But, you're suprised, and happy, and sad, and angry at all the parts you're suppose to be. Because you forget how it use to be. Because all of a sudden it's new again.

It's funny that the old can be new again. It makes you wonder if these is such a change, and maybe its a myth, an old wives told by bunnys and magical creatures. And maybe change isn't real. And you just learn things. And once you have it. You have it forever it. Maybe change should be changed to 'aqcuired.' And change can acquire the meaning acquire.

And this is a nice thought. Because then nothing really ends. And whatever you had before you have now. And whatever you're getting now you'll have forever.

And this is - wow - even a nicer. Because it is comforting. And dreamy. And just like candy.

And I'm just happy with all these - wow-denderful thoughts.