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.