11:59 pm - Thursday, Aug. 01, 2002
Song:
I always tell people I feel fine weather it be the truth or not. I�ve never had the skills to fall in the happy medium so I am always either dumping my problems on people or hiding them away. It�s better to reclusive in many ways. People prefer it in the long run.
I�m not sure where my life ended and the story of it begins, but it�s sometime back there between heartbreaks and song lyrics, reminding me that my mind has always reduced things to words when it could be letting my body live and enjoy the moment.
I�m Holden in �Catcher In The Rye�. I never much liked the book because he�s too much like me. I never feel what I am supposed to in different situations. I cry, laugh, and think at the wrong times. I�m always thinking at the wrong times. I wish I had the ability to get into things and allow my whole being to be taken into them, but no, my mind is always writing, every moment is narrated and worded nicely and I�m driving myself mad.
All I ever talk about is myself because I feel I would have to think about something otherwise if I were to write about you. And frankly I�m not much of a person to take others into consideration. If you want me to be then you aren�t my friend. Because I�m not going to be. Odd how that sort of thing works.
Now where was I, oh yes, my life changed from life to a story, I think as soon as I learned to read. Stories spark my imagination. I live to write. I do it everywhere on everything. More often then not though, my mind is the only holding of my pieces of writing and by the time I sprawl them down or type them up, they�ve fallen to bare skeletons of the masterpieces they once were.
I tell myself to bring a notebook with me, but I rarely even remember my wallet.
There are so many words, they push out consideration. I�d rather write a novel then keep from angering you, because more likely then not the latter is nearly impossible, so why even make the attempt. But I�m not here to make jabs at you. I�m here to sort things out in my mind. I know that sorting my thoughts is an impossible mission, but I haven�t another thing to write about, and I long to bring the words in my mind out through my hands.
There are few things I long for stronger then the longing that pushes me to write. Only one I think, actually. Just a need for human contact. A need for him to hold me and kiss me and tell me sweet little things.
He is all part of the story as well. So is she and him and them. All part of the story I left my life for. Each person I love or hate or touch is a character, another piece of a story that I should be living. But I can�t curb my urge to write.
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