I’m constantly picking up and abandoning my journal ever since I started writing. Something about reliving a (to me) stupid/dumbass moment when I go back to an earlier time in my life makes me realize how pointless all my thoughts and actions are/were. Nothing like reliving the train of thoughts that led to a fight or nothingness…I mean I will truly get upset all over again to something that happened a year ago. And my dates gap. Sometimes I go at least 4-5 months without journaling until something that I can’t escape my cranium needs to be scribbled down at 1 a.m. Sometimes a year.
It seems to me that when you keep the same thoughts in your head, it’s almost as if you’re talking to yourself. And it’s all one sided. And it’s always shit we think of when a pen and pad isn’t available. Driving. Busy at work. On a date. We journal to analyze and come to conclusions or just to get ideas out for future projects. But eventually, somewhere down the line, all those old conclusions and theories seem like the dumbest shit you ever thought about so you get rash. Soon the thought: I’m gonna burn this damn book, is the greatest idea ever. Destroy the evidence. Hurry before its discovered and I’m forever ridiculed for being such a dumb cunt.
Sometimes I see repetition. Something that happened 8 months ago is suddenly happening again but with someone else in another city at a different job. Which makes you feel like you digress. Which makes you feel even worse. Did I not grow up? Did I seriously not analyze and conclude this shit already? Then how the fuck am I doing this again? They claim that’s insanity…but I think in order to be a creative, let alone a writer, you kind of have to be insane. This lifestyle isn’t easy I don’t give a fuck what anyone says. If they think it’s easy, then it’s crap. Ask that lady who wrote 50 Shades…
So eventually, I want to start all over. New journal. New tablet. Hopefully new thoughts and theories and ideas. Let’s abandon that last one I mean…it’s just a ghost waiting to haunt you, remind you of all your faults. It becomes part of the pile. My journal currently lives under my bed like the boogie man, collecting dust. I will see it there lying there, taunting me, peeking from up underneath my bed. You know you want to come back, it says to me. Nah fuck you right now is what I say back. But it knows. It knows eventually the noise in my head is going to get too loud, consistent, and irritating that I will have to go back to it.
I rely on it for peace and quiet. Because no sort of social media outlet in the world will make you feel comfortable enough to spill it all. Not one tumblr, livejournal, or xanga account. Admit it all those sites are just a front. If you try hard enough, you’ll gather of followers who “understands” you. I quote that because on your tumblr/livejournal/xanga you’re still not telling it all. No you say things about your life that’s appealing to the followers. Hence why they are who they are. You give about 30% at first, to test the waters, see what people will like or say. Once feedback is good enough, you give more and more until you’re about at 75%. No one goes past 90%…that’s pushing it. Because all in all, it’s still the Internet. Not everyone is nice. And we all want to obtain a small ounce of privacy and self.
So we spend the money on these pretty covered books with nice ass lined/unlined paper to make it seem official. Journaling is a hobby. All of my precious memories and flow of words exist in this beautifully bound jail cell where I think no one can get in and these incidents can’t get out. Unless you want them to. That’s for you to decide. But don’t like it’s not a small bit of hell. Don’t act like you consistently enjoy penning your emotional hell onto the trees. Sometimes it’s wonderful but damn as much as it is wonderful, it can be god awful. I will end a journal entry in the middle of a thought because eventually I get tired of hearing my own damn voice. And because my damn hand is cramping like no other. Fuck it I throw down my pen, slam that book shut and slide it back to its home. And try again in a few months.