When I remember that I exist here in addition to my "real," waking life, it's a kind of shock.  Maybe it's odd that I feel the need to distinguish the two -- or maybe it's healthy.   It's shocking because lately, I am ink and paper and fabric and flesh.  It used to be so natural to exist here without dimension or confines.  But I guess in growing older I have come to understand the finality of adulthood that used to be so undecipherable.  All of my ignorance of the intricacies of Big Decisions and of personality has been somewhat shattered, and now it's strange to write in the same place where that ignorance used to thrive.  I have a certain nostalgia for this place, and that is why I keep coming back to try it on, only to discover again and again that it's too small -- there is too much stress on the seams to wear it for long.  But I still have my "IRs," as Stephen King calls them, my Ideal Readers, the people that I come back for, and they'll keep me going for a while.  

I'm always chuckling at myself for calling myself old.  But in some ways, I am.  Every moment that passes, I'm older than I've ever been, than I could ever imagine, and I suppose I'll keep feeling that way until I die.  I was watching The Professional last night, and there's this part where one of the characters says something about having experienced enough to confront his own mortality, and that it's the reason he really appreciates life.  Something like that.  But I'm getting closer and closer to my first Big Decision (college), closer to the end of this chapter (highschool).  It'll feel nice to shed the tight, old skin, but I'm sure the new skin will be more susceptible to damage.

Regardless, everything is so exciting right now, and it's a shame that that excitement doesn't translate well here.  There's the excitement of possessing the authority of an upperclassman, of driving all over town, of independence.  All the time I'm cramming in more unique "highschool" experiences -- lying on people's beds and listening to mix tapes, stealing shoes from the bowling alley, losing an innocent game of strip Scrabble, multiple reprises of underwear swimming -- all of the would-be promiscuous activities that compile to make funny stories.  With only two more years, I've gotta stock up.