(no subject)
Just before I opened this window, I had in my mind everything I wanted to say. But just as quickly as the bland white of the windows popped up on my screen, those thoughts vanished.
Here I am, up in the middle of the night, typing at a feverish pace, my mind filled with novels and revelations.
I just finished another amazing book. They always make me want to write.
I can't sleep for a very long while after I finish a good book. It doesn't matter that I have work six hours from now or that I told my girlfriend I was going to sleep and hour or so before that. The wondrous words still echo in my mind, bouncing off the boundaries of my skull like gunfire.
I really wish I could remember what I was going to write. It was really good.
Ah, yes.
Looking back at this journal, I can't help but feel a bit of nostalgia bridled with remorse and guilt. I used to write in this badboy all the time. Now I regard it in ways that I used to regard reading.
Reading was always a tricky subject for me, considering I could never just pick up any random book and just read it. I'd have to have good reccommendations from close relatives or pals (which in itself is ridiculous because most of my friends don't read and even if they did how the heck would they find the books in the first place?). Even then, I regard books with a sort of worried ignorance, like a plant you know you're supposed to be watering or a person you're supposed to be seeing. Don't get me wrong, I love to read, but it's just so hard to get into. The thing for most people is the fact that reading just seems a bit.. intimidating, I should think. When I tell a friend to read a book, they go, "Aah! I don't have time for that. Now pardon me whilst I go build the Eifel Tower whilst simultaneously cataloging the Library of Congress." (Note to self: keep American and French items out of sentences together as they tend to get rather catty.) They feel like reading is a task, albeit an enjoyable one, and, even when they are knee-deep in the very busy world of nothing, they could always be doing something better. I, too, am guilty of this behavior. But once we manage to force themselves to get past that first page, most people of us can't stop. And I've truly read some wonderful things.
Tangent, go.
As I was saying, I look back at this journal and I have strange feelings. I may have given them names before, but like orphans from a foster home, those names just felt.. wrong. Upon closer examination of myself, I can tell that this feeling is a feeling of.. unpleasedness. That is, the me that wrote these entries so long ago has evolved into a new, higher life form. A Brendo Sapien, if you may. A life form, though still looking quite goofy, feels far more artistic. I'm almost inspired to start a new LJ.
Of course, I wouldn't leave this one behind. I still love some of my previous entries with a passion unseen by most. Some of the things I wrote were truly great, and I feel I've lost that creative flow within my writings. Most of the time now I'm just a stumbly mess of verbs and adjectives, abused and ravaged by cruel and harsh adverbs and nouns (don't judge my metaphors, I'm on a roll). But I still feel like making a new one would.. be beneficial. Firstly, because nobody reads this one anymore. It would catch people's eyes definitely, though that seems a cry for help.
But I think that's what I need. For when I IM random friends during the day and all I get in response is blank windows filled with my words, I feel a bit alone. I call to them through the intricacies of the internet, and though it states they are there, they seem oblivious to my words. I hold a hopeful eye, and wonder if they are in the bathroom or away doing some other thing, and continue to occasionaly dop another line or to, imagining that my window must be buried underneath a gigantic mountain of others, unable to be seen by my friend or chum. But when the minutes turn to near-hours and the person you are trying to speak to is still not idle, yours eyes glaze, the hopefullness crusting into something worse. Even more so when they slap an away message on. Not an idle one, mind you, but an intricately thought out and humorous away message.
This, to me, seems like a slap in the face, but a glint of hopefulness remains in me. I figure something must have happened to them. Maybe younger siblings hijacked their computer. Or aliens. Yes, that's it. Aliens.
But it's happening more and more with a lot of my acquaintances, even more so with a few of my close friends, and that is really beginning to trouble me. It makes me wonder if deep down all my friends have some sort of ire against me.
Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.
Hah! Me, paranoid? Ridiculous. Now hold on, I have to check to see if the oven is on.
We'll see who responds in the meantime.
Love,
Brendan
Here I am, up in the middle of the night, typing at a feverish pace, my mind filled with novels and revelations.
I just finished another amazing book. They always make me want to write.
I can't sleep for a very long while after I finish a good book. It doesn't matter that I have work six hours from now or that I told my girlfriend I was going to sleep and hour or so before that. The wondrous words still echo in my mind, bouncing off the boundaries of my skull like gunfire.
I really wish I could remember what I was going to write. It was really good.
Ah, yes.
Looking back at this journal, I can't help but feel a bit of nostalgia bridled with remorse and guilt. I used to write in this badboy all the time. Now I regard it in ways that I used to regard reading.
Reading was always a tricky subject for me, considering I could never just pick up any random book and just read it. I'd have to have good reccommendations from close relatives or pals (which in itself is ridiculous because most of my friends don't read and even if they did how the heck would they find the books in the first place?). Even then, I regard books with a sort of worried ignorance, like a plant you know you're supposed to be watering or a person you're supposed to be seeing. Don't get me wrong, I love to read, but it's just so hard to get into. The thing for most people is the fact that reading just seems a bit.. intimidating, I should think. When I tell a friend to read a book, they go, "Aah! I don't have time for that. Now pardon me whilst I go build the Eifel Tower whilst simultaneously cataloging the Library of Congress." (Note to self: keep American and French items out of sentences together as they tend to get rather catty.) They feel like reading is a task, albeit an enjoyable one, and, even when they are knee-deep in the very busy world of nothing, they could always be doing something better. I, too, am guilty of this behavior. But once we manage to force themselves to get past that first page, most people of us can't stop. And I've truly read some wonderful things.
Tangent, go.
As I was saying, I look back at this journal and I have strange feelings. I may have given them names before, but like orphans from a foster home, those names just felt.. wrong. Upon closer examination of myself, I can tell that this feeling is a feeling of.. unpleasedness. That is, the me that wrote these entries so long ago has evolved into a new, higher life form. A Brendo Sapien, if you may. A life form, though still looking quite goofy, feels far more artistic. I'm almost inspired to start a new LJ.
Of course, I wouldn't leave this one behind. I still love some of my previous entries with a passion unseen by most. Some of the things I wrote were truly great, and I feel I've lost that creative flow within my writings. Most of the time now I'm just a stumbly mess of verbs and adjectives, abused and ravaged by cruel and harsh adverbs and nouns (don't judge my metaphors, I'm on a roll). But I still feel like making a new one would.. be beneficial. Firstly, because nobody reads this one anymore. It would catch people's eyes definitely, though that seems a cry for help.
But I think that's what I need. For when I IM random friends during the day and all I get in response is blank windows filled with my words, I feel a bit alone. I call to them through the intricacies of the internet, and though it states they are there, they seem oblivious to my words. I hold a hopeful eye, and wonder if they are in the bathroom or away doing some other thing, and continue to occasionaly dop another line or to, imagining that my window must be buried underneath a gigantic mountain of others, unable to be seen by my friend or chum. But when the minutes turn to near-hours and the person you are trying to speak to is still not idle, yours eyes glaze, the hopefullness crusting into something worse. Even more so when they slap an away message on. Not an idle one, mind you, but an intricately thought out and humorous away message.
This, to me, seems like a slap in the face, but a glint of hopefulness remains in me. I figure something must have happened to them. Maybe younger siblings hijacked their computer. Or aliens. Yes, that's it. Aliens.
But it's happening more and more with a lot of my acquaintances, even more so with a few of my close friends, and that is really beginning to trouble me. It makes me wonder if deep down all my friends have some sort of ire against me.
Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.
Hah! Me, paranoid? Ridiculous. Now hold on, I have to check to see if the oven is on.
We'll see who responds in the meantime.
Love,
Brendan