I'm at five and a half pages or so of the wretched 25 I must have written for my Comp 1 class... by Thursday. It's not a cruel assignment by any stretch. It was assigned the first day of class as just a looming grade somewhere off in the distance after after Halloween, after Thanksgiving, after I've lived the first semester of my college experience and learned all the tricks... Here we are and I must keep typing. The math is terrible. Since I have completed six blogs, each averaging about 9/10 of a page on microsoft word (the unit of measurement), that leaves 19.5 yet unfilled pages with a little less than five days to complete them in. It's about 4 blogs per day, with a little extra on the side. Shit.
Like I said, I've kept a journal before. There was a time when I would always be scribbling in my little books. I'd carry one with me everywhere I went and never feel lonely, you know? It was like opening up a dialogue with my future self. One day you'll read this and be reminded of how young you were. How sad you were, how happy. How clever... I'd think to myself while tucking the pen and paper away, another little treasure of emotions and thoughts saved from the ravages of memory, preserved for the ages.
I dig up those books from the piles of my bedroom mostly on accident when I'm not expecting it. That little bitch comes wandering into my life with all her ancient ideas to cast judgement on my time, something she simply knows nothing about. But she knows me, and better than anyone. We sit there looking at each other, both wise and endlessly ignorant, spouting of observations trying to make them fit like puzzle pieces in the gaps of time between us.
Sometimes it happens before the audience of a close friend who has made the mistake of grabbing for things closed and covered, to my shock and horror. We defend our secrets fiercely, us private writers. Jumping between prey and predator my past is safe... 'til five minutes later when I'm absorbed in the ritual and reading aloud without a thought to who's watching.
I used to write poetry. I used to write prose. I used to give detailed accounts of conversations, people, and dreams. I bared my soul on a regular basis to pieces of thinned out, dried up wood. Now I never do, or always do, but to people now. I'm not sure. It feels easier to talk and talk to the air, to other people's ears where once it's gone it's gone and I can't look back to save my life. What has changed?
March 24, 2008 6.15pm
Has it been proven that I am happier when I keep a journal? Nope, but regardless I still end up writing to myself. Either in "Notes to Self:" on loose leaf in my binder or as short sentementalities scrawled on bits of trash it happens...