12:56 p.m. | 2005-10-23
A Short October

I write. A lot.

I find so many things about it pleasing...see my thoughts are like half sentences. They have nouns and verbs and occasionally an adverb but never in the right order. When I write it’s love. I write in big words with emphasis. I love my handwriting most days. I’ll footnote my notes just to write more. Because it’s this physical embodiment of me and what I feel.

I scribble on everything. I write lyrics all over scratch paper (I never doodle on my notes or binders anymore, they’re sacred pieces of art in their own right). I found these books last night. Books bound in leather and cloth. Written in scratch, each word thought out.

I’ve typed out hundreds of pages online but I’ve never managed to finish one of those books (or anywhere past 20 pages of them). They aren’t diaries, there is no dialogue which reminds me of the day. They’re a struggle. They’re me at that very moment of discovery. That second when I know who I am. It always fades back into cloudiness, though.

And I always have this theory that in 10 years, or 2 months for that matter, I’ll hate all of this. I’ll look back, roll my eyes and toss them in the trash.

Because half of this is pointless, ya know?

I’m not amazing. I am discovering things about myself, not developing a new fission theory. And years later I look back at these thoughts and realize that they’re ridiculous. I want to be amazing. And I don’t need written proof that I’m not.

So I’ve probably written novels. Between my lyrics and pieces of stories and just sentences – I’ve probably written thousands of pages. They’re always on the back of handouts, though. Or on the corner of pages that I no longer need. Always on something I know I won’t be keeping around. All on things that I know will disappear soon and all that will be left will be what I remember them being (which is always a glorified version).

I really want to finish those books. But I’m not willing to write in them and hate them. Because I will. Whether or not they’re worth being hated I will do it anyway. I will tear them to shreds. One has words. Real words. Good words. Words that make sense. I think that I’ll keep that one and scribble in it with my brown pen (the book itself is this beautiful brown cloth bound one). I’ll keep it on me so in that moment when thoughts are real and I am eloquent I can catch it.

It’s almost November.

k