When nostalgia blurs into necrophilia

It is over a year since I last updated this blog. Just reading back on it shocks me a little bit. I feel infinitely older than whoever was writing here. It's like reading someone else's stuff.

This Lilly Scabette. She sounds brittle, a little kid showing off. She's got a lot of ideas but no organisation. She's just a bit pretentious, and God, how young she sounds. So innocent.

I've aged.

Did that brittle little Lilly shatter into dust?

She's gone. That girl who tapped out late-night metaphors with a brazen self-consciousness, who ran away to live with the first guy who would give her the time of day, that foolish little kid who tried to make real life and fantasy the same thing. That gullible girl who thought she knew it all but really knew nothing. Or maybe she only knew the wrong things. I can't discredit her utterly. I'm in her bedroom now, wearing her old dressing gown.

I'm 22 years old and back in my old bedroom.