The old computer is back up.

And now it's running Windows XP, which I don't like as well as 2000, with the exception of a handful of programs running inherently faster. At any rate, I now have access to my ideas and ambitions of old, though they are amidst virtual cobwebs now.

***FLASH***
The computer just hallucinated that the shift key was being held constantly. Then it deleted everything I was typing and tried to navigate away from this web page. After logging out, logging back on was impossible. A reboot was necessary to neutralize the threat.


Sooooooooo. This kind of stuff is why I'm going to buy a Macbook. Plus, by the time I get stuff sorted out from the long period of downtime and the randomly corrupting transition to XP, I might as well have waited to get my own computer and hand-pick the stuff I want to transfer, enabling a fresh and uncluttered start. Such would also make it simpler to deal with the programs, etc. I have that are now a version or two behind.

Anyway, it's now at least possible for me to blog should I have the time and mind to, but I can't promise anything as my personal projects are still going to be on hold for the most part. I also apologize for all the stuff that I would have blogged when I couldn't. Some great (and original) material, from jokes to serious rationalizations, never made it here, but the moments have past and the most practical thing I can do now is just let the missed be missed.

On a personal note, my life in general has been in a rut for some time, but there are signs of it finally getting better. I mention this in part because one's psychological state has almost as much affect on blogging as computer issues do. To be honest, I envy the first months of my blog. I desire the state of life I was in then, with freedom and creativity flowing betwixt the banks of responsibility and well-being. I hope to arrive at that stream once more, but the mist from the mountains of college and adulthood change obscures my vision. A lamp dances through the fog, but I never find myself catching its guiding ray. The most solid object is that of a side-road that would bear me off to the detour of a fifth year in high school; and though I choose to walk it, I cannot now discern what the road is made of. It seems to shift as a gaze upon it, and at times I wonder if the distortion results from heat waves that would burn my feet. I'll take the burns if I must, trusting that a cool pond lies somewhere along the path.

(I am sick of American literature.)