You know when you have something on your mind, and everything around you just becomes peripheral to this one train of thought. Then somebody's around and babbling away, and the frivolity of their words are like a mosquito buzzing around your head. You just want to firmly tell them to shut up.
You want this silence to get lost in your thoughts, but you also want them to be silent to, in turn, notice your own silence and the clear looks of deep thought plastered on your weary face. Then maybe they will talk to you, and listen attentively, and probably give some advice. Maybe bullshit advice, the kind you definitely did not want to hear; or some condolences on your tangled web of brain mush. Probably nothing actually substantial, definitely nothing that will magically make everything make sense. But still, if they would just ask!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Journal: August 19, 2011
An excerpt from the last entry of my latest journal, which I began in June 2010 and finished today:
"I can't help but wonder if someday I'll have a grand kid who's so fond of me, and loves writing that will read this scatterbrained chicken-scratch, over-hyphenated and rambling as it is, and he or she will cherish it, in a strange way.
There's something significantly more charming and sentimental, and just all-around beautiful about a book stuffed-silly with organic thoughts, scribbled out by-hand, generating with the dance of a pen.
It's what I love; sometimes it's rough, but sometimes it down right therapeutic; release for my mind from the tangled web of thoughts that so often make life seem so much more complex than it is when you put its simplicity down on paper. Writing is a concrete reminder of what life is really like. A chance to pull yourself out of the illusory world you've moved into. A chance to bring yourself back to the basics; back to reality, breaking things down to make sense out of them, often more easily than anticipated.
I've missed writing."
"I can't help but wonder if someday I'll have a grand kid who's so fond of me, and loves writing that will read this scatterbrained chicken-scratch, over-hyphenated and rambling as it is, and he or she will cherish it, in a strange way.
There's something significantly more charming and sentimental, and just all-around beautiful about a book stuffed-silly with organic thoughts, scribbled out by-hand, generating with the dance of a pen.
It's what I love; sometimes it's rough, but sometimes it down right therapeutic; release for my mind from the tangled web of thoughts that so often make life seem so much more complex than it is when you put its simplicity down on paper. Writing is a concrete reminder of what life is really like. A chance to pull yourself out of the illusory world you've moved into. A chance to bring yourself back to the basics; back to reality, breaking things down to make sense out of them, often more easily than anticipated.
I've missed writing."
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