On The Need to Write
I realized tonight that I've been keeping this journal since I was seventeen. I have a post that recalls turning eighteen. I'm twenty now, almost twenty one: that's three years. So much has changed.
I miss being the garden-girl of before, the one that reveled in the beautiful wholesomeness of raspberry leaves and long grass; who celebrated the small, brown-eyed-susie details of life. I now feel like I don't see the details anymore, and when I do, they are ugly. Is that because my surroundings have changed, or because I have? The thought of being changed from a person who saw beauty to a one who only sees misery frightens me very much.
I'm older in body, but I haven't changed much physically.
I'm older in spirit, and I know I have lines and cracks I didn't have before. Life involves pain and scars, I know this now. It affects my outlook.
I'm older in mind, and I regret this to a certain extant. I have been exposed to, and exposed myself to more 'mature' material. University has not been the shelter highschool was. I feel like I'm at some kind of intersection in this regard, and I'm still deciding how to file and deal with this material, and the affect exposure has had on me.
This journal has watched me through a few of the main crucial points of decision my life has lately held. I feel like I could be on the brink of another, and yet am not sure what it will be, exactly.
I'm afraid of the scars change leaves: I know the cuts that make them sting. I'm afraid that changes in mind are irreversable. This fear is a paralyzing one: it births in me the urge to sit still and do nothing: to not change. I've been manifesting this physically, in sleeping late, procrastinating on my laundry, and leaving my room in disarray. Folly, I know. I'm not afraid to change my body: I wouldn't mind losing a bit of weight. My goal is to make it to the gym every morning after my boyfriend's daily wake-up call, to run for twenty minutes. I'll take Sunday off. :)
Partly, I miss routine. Making my own life away from my parents' is not easy. I'm not willing to make all my own decisions yet, and still I must. This has changed me too.
Yes, I've made mistakes little and big, and will continue so to do. Where are they taking me, though, this is my question. I want to know. I always want to know. This time, though, I'm afraid to know: I've been avoiding any form of creative writing. My writing often predicts what will happen with me, even before I know what I will do or what will happen. The fact that I'm afraid to use even this not-fool-proof method makes me wonder if I already know that what's coming will be unpleasant. Being ken is a damnable thing.
I miss being the garden-girl of before, the one that reveled in the beautiful wholesomeness of raspberry leaves and long grass; who celebrated the small, brown-eyed-susie details of life. I now feel like I don't see the details anymore, and when I do, they are ugly. Is that because my surroundings have changed, or because I have? The thought of being changed from a person who saw beauty to a one who only sees misery frightens me very much.
I'm older in body, but I haven't changed much physically.
I'm older in spirit, and I know I have lines and cracks I didn't have before. Life involves pain and scars, I know this now. It affects my outlook.
I'm older in mind, and I regret this to a certain extant. I have been exposed to, and exposed myself to more 'mature' material. University has not been the shelter highschool was. I feel like I'm at some kind of intersection in this regard, and I'm still deciding how to file and deal with this material, and the affect exposure has had on me.
This journal has watched me through a few of the main crucial points of decision my life has lately held. I feel like I could be on the brink of another, and yet am not sure what it will be, exactly.
I'm afraid of the scars change leaves: I know the cuts that make them sting. I'm afraid that changes in mind are irreversable. This fear is a paralyzing one: it births in me the urge to sit still and do nothing: to not change. I've been manifesting this physically, in sleeping late, procrastinating on my laundry, and leaving my room in disarray. Folly, I know. I'm not afraid to change my body: I wouldn't mind losing a bit of weight. My goal is to make it to the gym every morning after my boyfriend's daily wake-up call, to run for twenty minutes. I'll take Sunday off. :)
Partly, I miss routine. Making my own life away from my parents' is not easy. I'm not willing to make all my own decisions yet, and still I must. This has changed me too.
Yes, I've made mistakes little and big, and will continue so to do. Where are they taking me, though, this is my question. I want to know. I always want to know. This time, though, I'm afraid to know: I've been avoiding any form of creative writing. My writing often predicts what will happen with me, even before I know what I will do or what will happen. The fact that I'm afraid to use even this not-fool-proof method makes me wonder if I already know that what's coming will be unpleasant. Being ken is a damnable thing.