I was thinking about the entry that I had planned for yesterday. Then I saw my right thumb.

Years ago I did a really good gash about 45 degrees to the knuckle. It caused me all sorts of problems when it was healing. I'm right handed, and it's almost impossible to do anything without flexing your thumb. Obviously it took a while to heal, but the only thing left now is a small scar just longer than a half inch.

Last week I had used my trusty Leatherman Charge on some routine task and was wiping the blade before closing it. It's something I've done thousands of times before with all my pocket knives and both my Leatherman tools. Pressing just hard enough with the tips of my thumb and finger to get the gunk off. I pressed a little too hard with my thumb and sliced it open. So it's a little sore and my thumb tip is rough where the old skin meets the new.

The old and new scar made me realize something. As much as that "personal horror story" bent me at the time, most of it happened more than twenty years ago. Yes, I regret what I did, but I've already made my peace with it. I followed my own rule of three. I found at least three people who I trusted and I told them what happened.

You see, I had it written out beautifully. Polished and buffed, my old hurts ready for display. I was ready to don that exquisite pain once again and parade my "secret" shame out for the world to see.

I had forgotten.

People cherish their passions. Especially if those passions are something that they've held close to their heart for years and years. They wrap themselves in the fibers of their memories, the stronger the emotion, the stronger the fibers. It's a fundamental law of magick AND humanity, shaped by thought and driven by passion.

I didn't need to "confess" the first time around, I just needed acceptance. That acceptance of who I was, darkness and all, had become such a comfort that it had become a habit. Reading what I wrote, it was undoubtedly passionate. Romantic, in a doomed sort of way. Undeniably gothic. Remarkably dark. An amazing piece of writing.

That's when it really hit me.

How was it different from the makeup, the costumes, the attitude, and yes the affected nihilism of the goth scene? It was my own personal hair shirt, carefully trimmed with ermine and silver chains with just a little bit of judicious bleeding for accent. Self-absorbed, adolescent behavior begging to shock someone just so they'd notice. I instantly flashed on myself in goth garb and makeup and It. Was. NOT. A. Pretty. Sight.

Lord and Lady, that wasn't the person I wanted to be anymore.

I'm not sure it was ever the person I wanted to be, but the first time around it meant I "unclenched" enough to begin healing. I was cherishing the memory of letting go of the pain, but I wasn't really growing.

And here I was, writing authoritatively on the overuse of flair and bling. I knew what I had to do. To quote one of my favorite movies, Keep Moving Forward.

So that "personal Halloween horror story" is packed away until I really need it. Right now, you don't need to read it and I don't need to tell it again.

KMF. I think that's going to be one of my personal formulas, just like that with the italic at the end.

I wrote this to tell you what happened to the entry yesterday and why I was obsessing over my past. Maybe I wrote it to help some of you to avoid the mistake that I made for years. If I were to talk to myself, I'd say it happened. You're sorry. Do what you can to keep it from happening again. Let it go. KMF.