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The problem with spending an epic amount of your young life documenting said life as it's happening is that for some reason you sometimes get a fierce urge to recount certain moments. I have these random bouts where I go and reread old journals and I come away feeling really odd.
I haven't been writing as much in my journal lately. There are these large gaps in updates, compared to that stretch of time during 2006 and half of 2008 when I wrote every single day, even if it was one sentence. There's even more of a gap than in my journals from before then. I think the most gap-filled ones before the past two were from 1996-97 (my fifth grade year, which was rough) and from 1999-early 2000 (eighth grade, which was also rough). It's not for lack of wanting to write, because for my not-writing on paper I'm doing plenty of fiction for the first time in a while (even if it's mostly in fits and bursts), but the more that I think about it the more that I'm beginning to theorize that it's because I don't feel like there's anything happening to me that's worth chronicling in vivid detail. I mean, yes, there's the newscast and all the stress that it's causing me, and my writing, but I don't want my journals to become a litany of frustrations and beating my head against the metaphorical wall.
Moreover, I'm not interested in anyone, and in a way that's such a driving force in a lot of my journaling. Because I'm a bit emotionally stunted and I'm still a friggin' twelve year old girl on some level. Sometimes I think I just want a crush so I can have that thrill: the elation of seeing them, the speculation and the up, all while completely forgetting the crash that always comes in my case. Like, I want the thrill but I don't want the let down because I feel like it's inevitable. How is it possible for someone to be an optimist and a bit of a romantic while also being a fatalist?
Today I ended up reading one of my journals circa 2007, during the whole Blonde Bond era and not feeling a damn thing. No ache, no angst, no anger, just reading. More than anything, I wished I could get back to that kind of journal writing: that honest, if I cannot get how I feel down at this very moment my head may very well explode writing. I just like the rush and sometimes I feel like capturing my own thoughts helps me when I write fiction. And then sometimes I get weirded out when it does sort of read like fiction, like this one part:
I haven't been writing as much in my journal lately. There are these large gaps in updates, compared to that stretch of time during 2006 and half of 2008 when I wrote every single day, even if it was one sentence. There's even more of a gap than in my journals from before then. I think the most gap-filled ones before the past two were from 1996-97 (my fifth grade year, which was rough) and from 1999-early 2000 (eighth grade, which was also rough). It's not for lack of wanting to write, because for my not-writing on paper I'm doing plenty of fiction for the first time in a while (even if it's mostly in fits and bursts), but the more that I think about it the more that I'm beginning to theorize that it's because I don't feel like there's anything happening to me that's worth chronicling in vivid detail. I mean, yes, there's the newscast and all the stress that it's causing me, and my writing, but I don't want my journals to become a litany of frustrations and beating my head against the metaphorical wall.
Moreover, I'm not interested in anyone, and in a way that's such a driving force in a lot of my journaling. Because I'm a bit emotionally stunted and I'm still a friggin' twelve year old girl on some level. Sometimes I think I just want a crush so I can have that thrill: the elation of seeing them, the speculation and the up, all while completely forgetting the crash that always comes in my case. Like, I want the thrill but I don't want the let down because I feel like it's inevitable. How is it possible for someone to be an optimist and a bit of a romantic while also being a fatalist?
Today I ended up reading one of my journals circa 2007, during the whole Blonde Bond era and not feeling a damn thing. No ache, no angst, no anger, just reading. More than anything, I wished I could get back to that kind of journal writing: that honest, if I cannot get how I feel down at this very moment my head may very well explode writing. I just like the rush and sometimes I feel like capturing my own thoughts helps me when I write fiction. And then sometimes I get weirded out when it does sort of read like fiction, like this one part:
I still can't believe that he's somewhat detailed his entire sexual history to me. He recounted how old he was the first time he got kissed, saw a girl naked, had a girl go down on him, went down on a girl, and had actual intercourse that night I got his phone number. What kind of guy does that?
