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I started late, I ended early.
11/23/21 11:49 pmI got an email from the original home of this journal telling me that it had been nineteen years and congratulating me on not deleting it yet on my longevity, my persistence. I didn't click on the links, because that site isn't safe or secure and email from it, no matter how true, is suspect at best.
But still. In just a couple of years it will be more than half my life spent intermittently pouring out my heart for my own benefit, trying to push words out through tapping quietly at two, three, four in the morning, sometimes perfectly on time, sometimes more than once on my chosen day writing in patterns, one two three four sometimes skipping months, sometimes leaving whole years completely unremarked upon.
Sometimes fiction, sometimes fact, sometimes some peculiar blend of the two. It's like journaling, but without the sense of it being a life story. If someone stumbles on this, I'm not sure what they could really pull from it, other than that I spend a lot of time being tired and trying to find different ways to express that.
But I'm really too close to it, I have never been able to accurately pinpoint what other people think of me or how I come across, other than that I am both confused and confusing.
Nineteen years. I was twenty-three. By modern standards, barely more than a child. But I look back and read the words I wrote then and ...I'm still me. My timeline hasn't meandered, I have lived properly from one moment to the next to the next, nothing skipped or jumbled. I may ask myself, how did I get here? But the question is rhetorical: I know, with precision, exactly how I got here, and can trace every line.
But still. In just a couple of years it will be more than half my life spent intermittently pouring out my heart for my own benefit, trying to push words out through tapping quietly at two, three, four in the morning, sometimes perfectly on time, sometimes more than once on my chosen day writing in patterns, one two three four sometimes skipping months, sometimes leaving whole years completely unremarked upon.
Sometimes fiction, sometimes fact, sometimes some peculiar blend of the two. It's like journaling, but without the sense of it being a life story. If someone stumbles on this, I'm not sure what they could really pull from it, other than that I spend a lot of time being tired and trying to find different ways to express that.
But I'm really too close to it, I have never been able to accurately pinpoint what other people think of me or how I come across, other than that I am both confused and confusing.
Nineteen years. I was twenty-three. By modern standards, barely more than a child. But I look back and read the words I wrote then and ...I'm still me. My timeline hasn't meandered, I have lived properly from one moment to the next to the next, nothing skipped or jumbled. I may ask myself, how did I get here? But the question is rhetorical: I know, with precision, exactly how I got here, and can trace every line.
