The second coming...
So, now I have a job in which I stare at a computer, and wish that I could press fast-forward on my day, so I can go home and not be here. But it doesn't work today, and it didn't work yesterday, and I'm doubtful for tomorrow...
Complain and whine, bitch and moan, happier with something to give out about.
But it brings me to this, a record of self in digital format, and I'm not sure how I feel about this.
I'm used to keeping a journal and with that comes the sound of pen and paper, the scent of it, the freedom of direction and style, the illustrations, the unfixabke mistakes, not to mention the mental position it puts me in when I sit to write. I am only a writer by necessity, needing to write to exist inside my head, to make sense of it all. And as answers only create more questions, each conclusion I come to leads me down five paths at once, some of which will intertwine, and some that will affect everything, but others that are separate and unconnected, and ultimately reach a dead end. But I feel that maybe it is better to choose the wrong road every once in a while. Sometimes you need to force your way through the undergrowth, forge your own path, untrodden before you. Which is why I've burned all journals so far. Finish a book and burn it. Its not for anyone else, and it has already given me its benefit. And I don't want the opportunity to retrace my steps, and choose a better path, because to retrace your steps is to go backwards. And I've been there, and if it was worth it I would have stayed. And even though some people would love to read what I write, would like to get that all access pass to my back stage brain, I cant give somebody that. So, I burn them, and I've been told its stupid, a waste, why write at all if you'll turn it to ash? But if thats the way I should feel... Why live at all if you'll turn to dust? I don't know the answers yet, but sometimes I think I'm close to the right questions. But thats another subject to be dissected another time. I'm almost at the end of my current journal, there are three pages left, and I could fill them in an hour, but I haven't, because this time I don't want to burn it. And I wonder if I'm wrong to want to keep it, and I wonder if I was wrong before, and I wonder if I only think that I may be wrong so that I can do what I want this time. And I wonder and wonder and come to no conclusion, so don't write in the journal. I've even bought the next one, but a new journal is a daunting thing, all those blinding white pages, threatening to infect you with their nothingness, writers block, a blank pages age old defense mechanism. And so I am arrive here, with the intention of bitching and moaning about the starkness of typing and for the first time the click clicking of nails on keys syphons away my need to write, and I feel free.
Complain and whine, bitch and moan, happier with something to give out about.
But it brings me to this, a record of self in digital format, and I'm not sure how I feel about this.
I'm used to keeping a journal and with that comes the sound of pen and paper, the scent of it, the freedom of direction and style, the illustrations, the unfixabke mistakes, not to mention the mental position it puts me in when I sit to write. I am only a writer by necessity, needing to write to exist inside my head, to make sense of it all. And as answers only create more questions, each conclusion I come to leads me down five paths at once, some of which will intertwine, and some that will affect everything, but others that are separate and unconnected, and ultimately reach a dead end. But I feel that maybe it is better to choose the wrong road every once in a while. Sometimes you need to force your way through the undergrowth, forge your own path, untrodden before you. Which is why I've burned all journals so far. Finish a book and burn it. Its not for anyone else, and it has already given me its benefit. And I don't want the opportunity to retrace my steps, and choose a better path, because to retrace your steps is to go backwards. And I've been there, and if it was worth it I would have stayed. And even though some people would love to read what I write, would like to get that all access pass to my back stage brain, I cant give somebody that. So, I burn them, and I've been told its stupid, a waste, why write at all if you'll turn it to ash? But if thats the way I should feel... Why live at all if you'll turn to dust? I don't know the answers yet, but sometimes I think I'm close to the right questions. But thats another subject to be dissected another time. I'm almost at the end of my current journal, there are three pages left, and I could fill them in an hour, but I haven't, because this time I don't want to burn it. And I wonder if I'm wrong to want to keep it, and I wonder if I was wrong before, and I wonder if I only think that I may be wrong so that I can do what I want this time. And I wonder and wonder and come to no conclusion, so don't write in the journal. I've even bought the next one, but a new journal is a daunting thing, all those blinding white pages, threatening to infect you with their nothingness, writers block, a blank pages age old defense mechanism. And so I am arrive here, with the intention of bitching and moaning about the starkness of typing and for the first time the click clicking of nails on keys syphons away my need to write, and I feel free.
posted by Akashla at Friday, June 10, 2005
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