Wednesday, August 13, 2003
i am writer. your words are beautiful. too bad they are mine.
there is nothing to be envious about. writing is not an art, it's a pain. i would give it up but we've been together for so long. since age nine i've been filling the white space trying to make a difference. it started as a journal. a small pink notebook. some place where i could cuss and not have my parents know about it. some place to say i hated my friends and not have to deal with the guilt. some place to take it all back when i having a bad day.
i started recording my dreams. my favorite bands. my obsessions. those boys i wasn't allowed to like but did. the journal knew about it. the stupid things i knew i would forget. the first time i thought i was in love. my first kiss. it's all there. all in black blue red ink. i've had about five journals in varying shades since i've been in texas. it spans about nine years. nine years of my life recorded so i can forget and move on.
my mom jokes about publishing it Anne Frank style if i die young. if i go out like a rock star. i tell her no. no one would be interested in what i had for lunch -- grilled cheese -- and my favorite dessert, tiramasu. that's where i'm allowed to be dry. just a big scrapbook where i'm allowed to be boring.
___________________________________________
when ideas come to me i have to write them down immediately. i have notebooks, napkins and palms covered with my thoughts. one lines. paragraphs. all spread out.
"she was blue just like the moon. her hair the silver stars connecting the sky."
"she wasn't sure she would like a bagel. she still said yes."
"their names were like the todd oldham kitschy decortation from target. dmg + dkr = awesome, it read against the white insides of the bark."
most of them are useless. they can't go anywhere. just dead ends.
___________________________________________
lately, i've been using songs. one liners from songs i like. anything to fill the void where the thoughts should flow easily. it's not always full. my tank runs out of gas and i stare out the window in the middle of the highway. i watch the rain race down the glass. the one on the left wins.
sometimes my writing is a little displaced. i like it that way.
¶ 9:28 PM
|
there is nothing to be envious about. writing is not an art, it's a pain. i would give it up but we've been together for so long. since age nine i've been filling the white space trying to make a difference. it started as a journal. a small pink notebook. some place where i could cuss and not have my parents know about it. some place to say i hated my friends and not have to deal with the guilt. some place to take it all back when i having a bad day.
i started recording my dreams. my favorite bands. my obsessions. those boys i wasn't allowed to like but did. the journal knew about it. the stupid things i knew i would forget. the first time i thought i was in love. my first kiss. it's all there. all in black blue red ink. i've had about five journals in varying shades since i've been in texas. it spans about nine years. nine years of my life recorded so i can forget and move on.
my mom jokes about publishing it Anne Frank style if i die young. if i go out like a rock star. i tell her no. no one would be interested in what i had for lunch -- grilled cheese -- and my favorite dessert, tiramasu. that's where i'm allowed to be dry. just a big scrapbook where i'm allowed to be boring.
___________________________________________
when ideas come to me i have to write them down immediately. i have notebooks, napkins and palms covered with my thoughts. one lines. paragraphs. all spread out.
"she was blue just like the moon. her hair the silver stars connecting the sky."
"she wasn't sure she would like a bagel. she still said yes."
"their names were like the todd oldham kitschy decortation from target. dmg + dkr = awesome, it read against the white insides of the bark."
most of them are useless. they can't go anywhere. just dead ends.
___________________________________________
lately, i've been using songs. one liners from songs i like. anything to fill the void where the thoughts should flow easily. it's not always full. my tank runs out of gas and i stare out the window in the middle of the highway. i watch the rain race down the glass. the one on the left wins.
sometimes my writing is a little displaced. i like it that way.
¶ 9:28 PM
|
