What I have uploaded I have uploaded

For something like 5 years or so I was an Internet exhibitionist, you could say. I wrote about my interests, about what I like, what I do, well, everything and anything. I had some weird satisfaction if I was "searchable" on Google. It seems I didn't give a damn about my privacy.

Only lastly it actually began to worry me. When applying for a practice in a crime investigation laboratory, I wondered: how much could be found on me, given that somebody knows my name or nickname? It wouldn't take more than a few minutes to find out where do I live, what do I study, whom am I family to, well, way more than I'd like some anyone to find out. Creepy, and all because of my carelessness.

And that's before we take Facebook into account.

High time to change my profile photos all around the web. What am I getting so paranoid about? It's not like I'm going to rob a bank, you know. Really, I'm not. I'd just like to know where the hell is my identity data being publicly available, and I'm afraid I've lost track of it completely. Would be great to disappear from the web and start all over again, more cautiously.

Maybe I thought naïvely that somewhere in the net I would find someone who would care to, I don't know, listen to me. Ain't gonna happen, nope. What I need are real people. And I still seem to do so poorly in such relations, you know. Oh well.

Sorry for the mess, last few weeks are like a carousel, and I'm not quite sure how to get off this damn thing.

Oh, and the title is a paraphrase of some dude's quote. He happened to be a judge some two millennia ago.

Straight to the Ninth

One would assume it should be easier as the time passes. Guess what? It's the very opposite. I feel guilty for what I've told, for the damage I've done with those angry words I spoke to her. I thought I'm being fair and tying loose ends, simply saying how I feel. Only later I saw how cruel I was.

No disappointment compares with how much I'm disappointed with myself. 'Not a person, but a character' I was supposed to be, and yet I acted like a complete moron. Like a human, you could say - anyhow, just how I have never wished to act. First, I wished for her to be happy. Then, I wished for myself to be honest. Now, I wish I was wiser than that.

Feeding the false hopes of mine, I was going straight to the eighth ring of Dante Alighieri's hell. Such mean words as those which I uttered would count as a betrayal of a friend, which gives me a one-way ticket to the deepest, ninth ring. I betrayed her trust, which I should never have done, under any circumstances, no matter how frustrated, angry or sad I was.

If I knew a thousand ways to apologise, it wouldn't be enough. It may never be enough. So easy to destroy something beautiful with words, so difficult - if at all possible - to regain trust...

From the very beginning of this story I knew it had to end badly. I wanted to believe in some sort of happy ending, but it never was all that probable. Was this 'adventure' worth the aftermath? A week or so ago I'd say yes, definitely. Tonight I'm not so sure. Or: I'm sure it was not.

I'm to blame I didn't act earlier in the autumn, I'm to blame for speaking all these sordid words. How could I... expect her... to do what I'd wish she did? It was so wrong. I screw up really badly this time.

It can't rain all the time

My dormitory is a funny place. The staff hide from the cameras so they could smoke a cigarette.

Another winter 'love' (or was it?) story behind. The funny thing is, the more I idealise a girl, the less it takes for me to be completely disappointed. Sounds kind of self-explanatory, I know, so let's complicate things a bit: the more crazy I am and all over my head with a girl, the sooner I get to the 'whatever' phase. I mean, how could I be so blind? Maybe she used to be just like I pictured her, but today? Not so much.

Shallow, cruel, indifferent, cold? Call it as you will, I'm through with her. It'll be some time before I write a letter to her again. And somehow, I expect it to be kind of cynical. It's not because I'm angry. It's because I'm disappointed. Chiefly with myself probably, but what's the difference?

No regrets. None at all. And it has some aesthetic value, too. Now let's make sure I'm the protagonist of the story and find a happy ending, preferably... well, I won't spoil it. But damn, I hate being patient.

It was all beautiful and inspiring when it lasted, now I'm hiding whatever I feel about it beneath the mask of indifference. Hell with this, there's a new day ahead, right?

It can't rain all the time.

(And as I wrote it, it literally stopped raining and a few beams of the setting sun reached my room's window, the golden-lit clouds far in the background. Sometimes I wish I did believe any kind of signs.)