Rambling.

I recently reformatted my computer, and in doing so backed up all my shit onto an external drive.

While I was doing so, I stumbled on a folder titled "in progress" on the old drive that I can't remember making. In it were 22 stories and random thoughts and jots all mostly forgotten.

In going through them, I am somewhat amazed. A few of them are exceptionally old (well, 2003) and reading them is strange.

Some are disjointed simple ideas and outlines, others are fully fleshed out (as fully as my crappy stuff gets) stories that just lack an end point.

It was awesome and depressing all at once.

I wonder why I don't really write much anymore.

I wonder why I ever started.

I wonder why I kept going despite the fact that, let's be honest as shit, I am not all that good at it.

I guess it was fun, a lot of what I was feeling at the time came out in those stories. Probably more than people will ever understand, but I think that's normal.

Even now, sorting through these old ones I can pinpoint the feeling of being up in the middle of the night because I couldn't sleep, and turning to the computer.

In fact I'd say 95% of anything I've ever written was at night with a complete lack of sleep and a barely functioning brain.

I don't use that as an excuse for how bad it all turned out, it's just incredibly weird to me.

Maybe the cool thing to do would be to finish some of these, but I don't know how that will go.

Regardless, as I said, it has been somewhat inspiring, somewhat depressing and generally nice to reflect on some of those times.

That is all.