Blankets
I just finished reading Blankets, a graphic novel (no, not manga) I got for Christmas. It's a very wonderous and emotional book, but I guess the main thing about it that struck a chord with me is just how similar the author's (consider it an auto-biography) experiences have been to mine... I dunno, I guess it just feels good once in a while to have that commiseration, someone who feels the same way I do, supports my decisions (not directly, but through example of his own). Most of the time people think how I deal with situations is stupid, or sometimes even mean. These aren't intentions, just how I naturally react to things, and they always seem to be misperceived, and I suppose that's partly my fault. Language isn't really my thing. I could talk about donut squirrels for a good hour or so, but when it comes to crafting some sort of complete thought imbued with actual meaning, my process is measured in hours rather than seconds. For a rough example, what has been written so far took approximately an hour to write, and I've already forgotten much of what I originally intended to fill this space. An idea begins, then is fragmented by analysis, many pieces quickly lost to the void of my memory, others branching outwards, becoming more complex, intertwining with one another, creating pockets and gaps in logic and reasoning. And then they sit there, brooding in my mind, finding no escape through words, these words that seem so intangible. Why record a moment when it will be gone the next? Yet something drives futilely, even as the thoughts decay to nothingness. And at this point I've forgotten where I was going with this, if it was even originally ever leading anywhere, so I'll just stop. bleh