OK, this is much more like me. If you're seeing what I'm seeing, and I've not changed my mind yet, I have a pretty red, black and white template by now. The posts display is still a little clumsy, and I plan on tidying it in the future, but right now I'm quite proud with myself.

Red and black... those were pretty much all the colors I wore for about three or four years. I wouldn't wear anything else. I don't think I was ever a true darkie, although I know my family thought so... It's just that I liked those colors, because they were moody, passionate and tragical, just as I used to be. Or still am. This is a dilemma I haven't quite sorted out yet.

To wit:

I used to define myself through sadness. I was a sad person and in some not-quite-sick way, I enjoyed it. I knew exactly who I was. I was a middle-class educated little woman-bitch from hell who always had something to feel sad about. The men in my life used me, I had no friends, I felt oppressed by my parents, my pets died, my job sucked, etc., etc. This was the tonic in my life for a long time and I didn't expect it to change, not really. I was sad, I was cynical, I was bitter, I was a bitch to everyone except to those who really deserved it. I dressed in black. Ocassionally in red. Never otherwise. I read Kafka and Kundera and Dostoievsky and Blake and agreed with them. I lived them.

I remember one day, when talking to a friend of mine who also happened to be my boss and was to become my roommate and lover for the briefest time, a man who was more or less the way I was, I asked him suddenly, "Hey, Will, do you live sad?" and he just halted, looked at me for a long time, and said, "Yes... And now that I think of it, I'm kind of tired. Aren't you?" And then I thought about it myself, and decided I was tired, too. I didn't want to be sad anymore.

The problem was, I didn't want to be happy, not quite, either. One thing I'd noticed is that happy people apparently never have much to say. And I still stick to that notion, actually. Have you noticed the only interesting blogs are by people who aren't really happy?

I was on that when the problem solved itself. Belendor arrived to my life, we started living together without actually taking that decision and from then on I have been very happy to my greatest concern. It may sound stupid, but I really am. Sometimes I don't know who I am anymore. Not long ago I ran into an old friend whom I hadn't seen in a long time. We talked about this and that, and at some point he said, "You know, I don't quite know you anymore. I mean, clearly it is you, but you are not the same person."

And I ain't. Nowadays if you check my wardrobe you'll find the bizarrest assortment of colors. There is blue, there is white, there is purple, there is pink (PINK!), and, if you dig a little deeper, you might even find some yellow. This must sound ultimately stupid, worrying about the colors displayed in my closet, but to me it symbolizes everything that's changed in my life. I don't listen exclusively to Radiohead and Pink Floyd and Lacrimosa anymore. I haven't gotten into happy punk, please do not think that, but sometimes, when I listen to my Dido album and sing along, I wonder.

So now I'm happy. That's good. I wouldn't change my life for anyone's.

And now what? That's what I wonder about.