My love/hate relationship with journaling

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. 


Off the dome #5

Nothing made sense anymore. She sat in her cognac worn leather chair, sipping on her Slow and Low whiskey with a splash of Coke. From the thirtieth floor, the lights of the city sparkled like Christmas, blinking and moving. Everyone seemed to be so busy but not her. No…there was no need to have something to do. Although she seemed dressed for a night on the town. Black starched button up shirt and the tightest black skinny jeans she owned, she sat and stared out into the skyline, Doc Marten boots loosely laced on her feet. The ice in her glass moving to the sounds of Thelonius Monk on her sound bar. She felt troubled but not worried. The slew of emotions she was dealing with were trying to fight her way through but she couldn’t have that. She was quietly at peace. But shit wasn’t really making sense. How could she be so ok? Maybe it means she is beginning to care less. Or she hit a whole new level of denial. Either way…the whiskey was sweet and citrusy on her tongue. Her cell phone buzzed loudly on her oak coffee table. A friend asking where was she. Iffy about going out she decided to relax for a bit, let thoughts roll over in her brain for a bit, retrieve a small ounce of peace so when she did get drunk tonight, she won’t make any rash decisions. The things that bothered her seemed so small and dumb right now. But they were there and that is the underlying issue. How to make the dumb things disappear. The horns drowned out the static. Why was the city only so amazing at night? Her phone vibrates again. A random connection she made weeks ago was asking her what she was doing tonight. She sweeps up the phone to reply, “nothing you” when really she should have just left it alone. Non factor. The time read 11:17. She downs the rest of her drink as she stands from her chair to retrieve her  jacket. Her random connection replies, “whatever you’re doing I’m doing” She laughs as she locks the door behind her.