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So I remembered the password to this account.
I decided to log in.
I decided - to write a journal!
(Give me a head pat that I very much deserve, this was a lot of effort)
Coming to terms with the fact that I go through phases where I write very, very much or not at all for months at a time, but the common theme is that it always tends to be about myself when something does come out (aha - what a conundrum, considering the very tone of this journal of mine).
There is a lot to contemplate as a result of this, much of it inane and ineffable as it is. And though I started with much in mind, I do believe that I have nothing more to say.
Hm.
I decided to log in.
I decided - to write a journal!
(Give me a head pat that I very much deserve, this was a lot of effort)
Coming to terms with the fact that I go through phases where I write very, very much or not at all for months at a time, but the common theme is that it always tends to be about myself when something does come out (aha - what a conundrum, considering the very tone of this journal of mine).
There is a lot to contemplate as a result of this, much of it inane and ineffable as it is. And though I started with much in mind, I do believe that I have nothing more to say.
Hm.
Holy Hell, a DD
I haven't been active on here in quite a while. I attended a summer camp that was extremely writing-intensive in 2011, and after sharing my work in front of others, I realized that writing about pain only seems to perpetuate it. The Sylvia Plath kick of 2010 left me in a bruised and battered emotional state, and luckily I escaped with my life at the end of that year. Things are going fine now; no unrequited loves or hipster desires of moonbeams, hipbones, 3 am cigarettes, whatever you kids are writing about these days to fulfill all your egos and secret wishes.
But there's a fine line between writing about pain subjectively and objectivel
Etc
Blew up everyone's notifications, sry.
Summer's here, for the most part.
Late and Procrastinating Because...Late
Avoiding a giant research paper that's supposed to do all sorts of wonderful things for my being.
I can only listen to music softly when I write anything, and it must be instrumental.
Hello, Rodrigo y Gabriela.
Once I spent a whole class period listening to Santana and doing excellent work at the same time.
Such productivity will never happen again, I'm sure.
Coming to the conclusion that I have to write shitty things (perdon mi francais) and let them simmer for a while before taking a second look.
I made a painting last night.
It was just lines over a trajectory graph.
Kind of sunsetty lines, but still.
In the same way a haiku is st
E
12:30 and nothing better to do--no, that's not the case. Sleep is appealing. But I think I've been learning a little, and I like that. It's been a long time.
The two poets I saw today were ordinary people. And there didn't seem to be a secret, either; just a need to express.
Rambling.
Sleeping.
No. Not.
But.
Sleep.
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