This takes more courage than you probably realize

I was going through some boxes I left in my parents' basement when I first moved out two years ago, and I found an old notebook. It was scribbled all over the front and back and insides, and falling apart. You think I write frequently now; you should have seen this notebook. Pages and pages of poetry and prose; some half-finished, some half-edited, some written on napkins and paper bags because that was all that was available at the time.

It's kind of an odd coincidence, because a week or two ago, someone asked me if I still wrote the kinds of things I used to write a couple years ago. I don't, really, and maybe that's for the better. The vast majority of what I wrote was utter garbage; emo pseudo-scene crap that would be better fire kindling than reading material. But some of it isn't bad, if I can say so with humility and modesty.

Several years ago, when LiveJournal was insanely popular, I belonged to a LJ community called Ten Words. The premise was that members would post ten words (or, in some cases, ten short phrases), and other members would reply to the post with poetry and prose that contained all ten of the words. One time, the words were "I, Am, A, Faded, Photograph, Resting, In, Your, Cold, Hands."

I find myself overcome with anticipation and excitement. My hands. They are cold and need your warmth. Put my hands in yours and let us forget until the world is a faded memory. I have had nothing but a photograph for the past five months and frankly it hasn't been nearly enough to get my by, I try and somehow I pull through. I am resting my emotions so I won't explode when I see you.

It's lame, I know, but I love the last line so much that it makes up for the rest of it. I don't know why this is so hard for me to post right now, but it is. I guess it's just a part of someone who I used to be, and I'm not sure if that's someone I want to share with the people I know now.