I have a journal that i write in. I try to do so regularly but sometimes time passes and pages don't move. I'll open it and gasp at how long it's been and shake my head because I have a lot of catching up to do.
This book isn't anything grand. You'd find a lot of entries that scream what these posts merely echo and ideas, plans, that are only hinted at here.
I write about girls. Girls I'd like to sleep with. Or kiss. Or hold hands with. Or at least look into their eyes, but mostly sleep with (which never comes to fruition due to reasons mentioned in previous posts. Exhibit A & B). There are names that come go. Next month I'll have a set of two or three more names and then an entry saying that those feelings have fled from one of the parties. That entry will end with my declaration of independence only to be followed by a name or description of a girl I saw on campus or at a coffee shop. There are only a few who will be remembered. At least two. And in years to come I'll have to scratch my head to remember even their faces.
I ask G-d what He thinks of my life. I question its meaning and whether it will amount to anything. I express fears of wasted time or missed opportunities and injustices done to me by way of my own faults. I complain a lot.
And thru all of this I try to sound like Jack Keroauc. I wrote someone a letter the other day. I would call her "friend" but I'm not sure if she would appreciate me calling her that. But regardless, I wrote her. And in it I slipped into what I imagine Jack sounded like whenever he wrote. Or at least when he wrote Dean Moriarty's lines from On The Road. Bursts of energy and short sentences filled with eccentric inflections where he answered his own questions and wrote whatever hit his brain; thoughts that contradict each other.
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That really bothers me actually. I always try to write a thought but then see the other side. So I wear myself out thinking of every single alternate point or argument that could be presented, as if I expect to say that I've seen it from every angle. Or perhaps I'm just trying to point out which perspectives I have seen to prove that I did actually think about what I'm trying to say. But few people care to read one line that has 10 to every A. As if, "For this to be true, consider A, B, C..." or "I say this having taken these into account." A letter from me is much like an erratic scientist's notes meant only for himself. But nevertheless, I love to write. Ironically, reading isn't my favorite. But I'm trying. I've been buy books and asking for books and trying to read. I see the importance, much like flossing. When I do it, I feel better, my teeth are cleaner, I've learned something. But taking the time to actually get the thread and wrap around my fingers just seems foreign.
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I'm trying a lot of things. I'm trying to write more. I've been deep in the caves of writer's block but have recently poked my head out. I've yawned and grabbed my coffee and my pen is in hand. I'm begin as soon as I'm done with the crossword puzzle or daily sudoku. I'm trying to be healthier so as to not look at myself with disgust each morning. To put myself out and pull the blanket of security off and take risks. I'm trying to live life and find happiness that I deserve but deprive myself of still.
But I've written about these goals for months and complained for even longer. That's what we do. We say, "Oh, if only I had the time" or "One day..." I'm tired of one day. Because one day turns into yesterday and yesterday turns into last week, and then I'm lying here in bed at my parent's home a few days before Christmas wondering where the last few months have gone. My soul is dry and it needs enrichment and I'm determined to find it...
