Disassembling is dangerous
I'm still unpacking after over 10 days at home. I need to clear out before I can unpack properly, and so I've been working on that off and on. It's a big project, and I hope I can finish before 4 June otherwise it will never get done. Today I found some old journals that I had tried to start a habit of writing in in 6th and 8th grade, etc. How embarrassing! I ripped out the incriminating pages and I'm donating the mostly blank journals to Goodwill. My 8th-grade self in particular is quite horrendous to think about. It was all about who I liked and fantasies about people thinking I was attractive and Linkin Park and blah blah blah. Sometimes I feel as though I haven't gotten much better. God, I hope I have.
Most of these memories are so poorly put together as well. I have no talent for getting events down in a way that will mean much to me later. I assume that I'll remember things like on such and such a date I got this great haircut. Six years after the fact I don't even remember how long my hair was, much less people complimenting (or not complimenting) me on how "great" it looked. I write about feelings and ideas and all the crazy stuff that is going on in my head, but no real events. There is no story in my writing.
For that reason, I'm really sorry to everybody who reads this journal and finds it boring. I'm more reserved knowing that others are free to read what I have to say, but mostly I write when I'm emotional or need someone to talk to but nobody is around. I just cryptically express how shitty or happy or whatever I feel, and most likely it means nothing to anybody.
Most of these memories are so poorly put together as well. I have no talent for getting events down in a way that will mean much to me later. I assume that I'll remember things like on such and such a date I got this great haircut. Six years after the fact I don't even remember how long my hair was, much less people complimenting (or not complimenting) me on how "great" it looked. I write about feelings and ideas and all the crazy stuff that is going on in my head, but no real events. There is no story in my writing.
For that reason, I'm really sorry to everybody who reads this journal and finds it boring. I'm more reserved knowing that others are free to read what I have to say, but mostly I write when I'm emotional or need someone to talk to but nobody is around. I just cryptically express how shitty or happy or whatever I feel, and most likely it means nothing to anybody.