real magic isn't card tricks, big cribs and cars bitch (its making something out of nothing through this hardship)

Summer nights, outside my window, remind me of empty cinemas. Dustilu lit in a wash of orange, neat and clean, and almost just vaguely pregnant with a susurruss of possibility. Most of the possibilities I think have me fraught with anxiety.


There's a vague nostalgia of my first and second years of varsity, when I spent incredible amounts of time tethered to a dial up connection late at night (it had to be late enough for my parents not to miss any phonecalls), doing old school blogging, deviantart projects, and the rest of it (most of this has been purged from the interwebs, except if you look really, really carefully).


The nostalgia is happy; it reminds me of when I madly chased down virtual paths, uncluttered because no one had heard of blogs (this was 2005, before facebook, when geeks had livejournals), and let me clumsily build a lot of the writing and digital art talents I fake today (its the premise for me having been made the editor of a varsity magazine, and making faces at a delightfully pretty girl there). 


The nostalgia is worrying, because somehow, in five years, looking out the same window, its almost stuck in the same loop of feeling, and there's a little part gnawing away that I've only grown older and fatter, and not grown up or on.