Nostalgia Central
Maybe I'm coming back because of sentimental reasons?
Really it's because I brought back all of my old diaries. They now have a home in NYC (albeit, on the floor of my apartment). I had an interesting time reading through them all. Mostly, I am so distanced from those journals that they are funny and cute, but at worst they can be embarrassing and even painful.
Adriane came to New York a few weekends ago, and she told me that she had a copy of Mamaan's diary. She wanted to get the entire thing copied and bound, and distribute it amongst the cousins. Is that what will happen to my journals when I die? I hope not (so)? Some of the stuff I have written is crude and unflattering. And it's all emotional. Man, it feels good to write, though. And I forgot what writing for an audience (as small as this audience may be) feels like. Edited, revised. It's like the version of myself I want the world to see, rather than who I really am. But isn't the version I want to reveal also a true version of myself? That isn't as stupid as it sounds... I was thinking today about how the things I tell my therapist are actually important, and yet I always dismiss the things that I say as unimportant. A true believer in actions, I'd rather prove myself by doing instead of saying... but sometimes saying is okay. Sometimes saying is what's important, too.
As I type this I am literally having a staring contest with a mouse. Ah, the joys of living in New York.
Really it's because I brought back all of my old diaries. They now have a home in NYC (albeit, on the floor of my apartment). I had an interesting time reading through them all. Mostly, I am so distanced from those journals that they are funny and cute, but at worst they can be embarrassing and even painful.
Adriane came to New York a few weekends ago, and she told me that she had a copy of Mamaan's diary. She wanted to get the entire thing copied and bound, and distribute it amongst the cousins. Is that what will happen to my journals when I die? I hope not (so)? Some of the stuff I have written is crude and unflattering. And it's all emotional. Man, it feels good to write, though. And I forgot what writing for an audience (as small as this audience may be) feels like. Edited, revised. It's like the version of myself I want the world to see, rather than who I really am. But isn't the version I want to reveal also a true version of myself? That isn't as stupid as it sounds... I was thinking today about how the things I tell my therapist are actually important, and yet I always dismiss the things that I say as unimportant. A true believer in actions, I'd rather prove myself by doing instead of saying... but sometimes saying is okay. Sometimes saying is what's important, too.
As I type this I am literally having a staring contest with a mouse. Ah, the joys of living in New York.