For those I've forgotten:

It's the end of my first year of university, which means time for reflection:
I went back to the closest thing to home I have in Montréal and atop the desk I never liked to sit at was the journal I was supposed to give to Elizabeth once I'd finished. Maybe one day I will. Unfortunately, moleskins and blogposts and actual human interaction and expression got in the way. I miss writing, though, on lined pages, with a pen. Dating my entries. Writing well, too, because I was conditioned. Maybe it will all return to me this summer. First note: must buy new journal. This one will never be complete, which is entirely fitting considering the circumstances of the journal in the first place. Oh, Newland Archer, shoot me down an apple. Second note: I think I realised what the difference is, with regards to my creativity. I've known it was my move to Montréal, to a city at all, really, but I didn't know the specifics of it. It must be because of all these stimuli, which is a simple and unintelligent thing to say, for this is one of the major differences between a town of 100,000(/school of 350) and a city of 1,600,000(/school of 24,000). I just don't think I ever had time to settle down, to focus. Not when there are all these people and things. It stimulates the part of me that had moved relatively little in Manchester, but also squandered something that I felt was a huge part of me and of my time there. Only when there's stability can I really make something, for all other times I find myself merely grasping to the little things that rush by me. I need to grab onto one of them long enough to make something of it. And, of course, I may not be content with that thing that I've chosen to latch onto (though it certainly gives me something to write about). When you're trying to hold onto anything, though, you find that this happens. I'm sure my situation will be finefine in the future. I just wish I had the will/means/force to find stability here.
And though I find it harder to express myself, to focus my mind like I did years ago, looking in my journal I found instances of a true me. At least, a me that hasn't changed despite these hindrances, for good or bad. I'll share some in these excerpts from a book that will probably never see the light (funny how I lost my desire to write as soon as I got to Montréal - the journal ends with one (and only one) half-assed post a few days after I got here):

"I lied to him to test him. Would he get angry at me for an act like that? Though, it was more to sort things out. Or to test reality. ... I'm so manipulative .. but I manipulate to find the truth. I manipulate in a way that makes people refuse the id and see clearly. and I don't see anything wrong with that. ... The reality was spazzy. driven by instinct, and, for the most part, quick."

"(I want to witness the birth of a romance.)"

"For such an egoist I have a surprising inferiority complex when in the presence of those for whom I care. Call it reality, if you will. call it whatever you want. But I felt ugly when he looked at me, drunk, on the computer screen. But I didn't feel ugly before. maybe it was just the light. or the situation. or maybe I'm just on a bad cycle. ... Maybe I just get too irrational when dealing with things like these. paranoid that it won't turn out the right way. which is what I've worked so long to fight."

"not even love. because that takes up too much. "deep values." I don't believe myself what I wrote there. But I have to, or I'll feel the same way all over again."

Though maybe some things have fundamentally changed. Or maybe not. I've always been aware of my two sides, whichever one I show.