So it seems to me I need to write this, and it seems to me that this is the best place to put it after I'm done. No one hangs out here anymore, and I think that's just as well.

For the past three years (and before that still), there have been so many I's in anything I have to say, and there will be more as you read on. And it shames me, looking back through everything and seeing so many I's. But I've realized that maybe it couldn't be helped—that maybe the words and things that happened, which were wedged so very, very deeply underneath my skin, prevented me from being able to articulate anything else but that selfish, simple "I." Because I have been in pain.

This is not to say my 'pain' is anything great. Or romantic. Or anything worth reading about. Even with its honest simplicity to aid it, it is almost characterless. I don't even know what it is, anymore, to be honest. But it is—and that is to say: it exists—and despite moving on, it has existed as a universe, filling me to the brim, for three years.