Journals

Blogging is a commitment. This post itself is retroactively published because I haven't blogged for about a month. Blogs make it easy to organize a compilation of thoughts, but sometimes when there's not enough time for that, journals are nice to jot down tidbits of thought and feelings. Despite my preference of keeping a blog to keeping a journal, I feel most connected to myself with pen in hand and ink flowing. Lately, having bought a Moleskine, I've been journaling and sketching a bit more, but again, my issue with journals is that I can't easily go back to edit my thoughts from the spur of the moment. Here, I suppose, is an augmented compilation of those inspired snippets. (Content warning: explicit language below the break.)

The summer is dying. Something terrible and great creeps around the next corner of time, bringing with it the sickly sweetsour smell of summer rot — or perhaps it is nothing more than a fantasy conjured from spending too much time inside my own head. The alone has mutated into a wholly surreal dreamscape, reality crumbling around me. In my desperation to get away from myself, I give myself to the wrong people, people who don't know me but want me but don't want to know me. Am I making up for lost time and trying to get ahead of the game all at once? I missed out on the puppy love stages, and there's no going back. There's only the bitter twentysomething game of fucking and faking and feeling used. Life is getting faster, and it seems like I'm getting faster too.

But why should I slow down at all? I'm stepping into the next amazing step of my life, and the world is in my hands. I can finally do the things I want. I dress up and make up because there was a time when I was incapable of self care, when I was depressed, I felt disgusting and didn't have the energy or self love to do anything about it. I'm a person who knows exactly what I want, and I go get it, and I'm chasing after the person who I want to be. When it comes to other people, I have no idea what to do.

Lately I've been having incredibly vivid dreams. I wake up remembering only wisps of details, but the overwhelming memory of the joy and exuberance in the dreams lingers. It's the reason why I'm late to work now — I go back to sleep, I want to return to my dream and that sense of happiness. What does it mean that I feel more alive in my dreams than in real life? ◊