four walls, no walls, you and me.


like everything else, my life can be found in a box
May 8, 2007, 1:40 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I love my journals. I hardly use my nice or expensive ones. They are far too pristine for the crap I fill its pages with. My favorite journals are in a box, in a basement, in Lawndale. In particular, there is one hardbound black journal with red trim at the corners. The pages are amazing. It is the kind of paper you would find in Asia, not in the stationary stores with animated dogs and pigs spouting heartwarming greetings in bad grammar, but the kind of paper you would find in notebooks made for ordinary people for ordinary use. It was lined with one red line on top, the rest blue, and had the most delicious transparency to them when I wrote with my black felt pen. That was my favorite pen for a long time. Lately it’s bee my fine line Rotring pen, which sadly dried out even when I put new ink in. I guess its time had come.

The thing about journals is, we all do them differently. I always loved seeing and reading other people’s journals, I guess I’m a secret voyeur. I don’t actually think that. I think that the well trained artist/writer/director/any person who is creative and hungry will always have that desire, to eat up everything, everyone, every experience they have ever known, to know their lives. Anyway, I compulsively read my journals over and over again. Whatever it is I’m reading, no matter how long ago or soon it was, I always get caught up in that feeling again and it doesn’t leave for days and days.

The good thing about not having my journals here is that there is a much smaller reference point for me to gauge the failures of my life. My time at home has been spent trying to become less psychotic, avoiding the sun, drinking, dancing (often both) my pain away or smoking cigarettes by my window concentrating on breath or the path of smoke as it leaves my body.

But there are Doubts. and Thoughts. and Rage. and deep Hurt. and Hopelessness. That for some reason or another is too much to ask of a quill. It is mere feathers, how could it bear such a heavy burden under its small weight?

Confessions mean more in pen and paper. As a policy, I seldom use pencil. I don’t like the idea of being able to erase the past. It was there. You took your part of it. Don’t hide behind it and Don’t Forget. It is what made you who you are today. Do not ignore it. Give it its space, but don’t let it take you over.

I have not been able to write for over a year. I have written vapid emails and birthday card greetings. But I have yet to write something that can bear the tiny bits of my soul that is left, the glimpses into my hurt, the things that make me human, however fucked up it may be. I can’t be honest with myself so how can I be honest with you? You may think I’m lying but that is a terrible mistake. Few people know my secrets and but even those few people were lied to. There is no one who knows the whole truth except for God and most days I hate him for letting one of his tiny little children, so pure of heart and so willing to love and did love everyone, suffer so. That girls is Gone and now I am left with her body, trying to restore it’s broken frame into something God can accept back to Him.

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