I never even look at my
journal anymore. I’ve almost forgotten what
restraint.org looks like.
I tell myself that the purpose of a journal is to
accurately reflect and
convey the
events and happenings of a day, a week, a month, a year. That is what it is for, that is the purpose of keeping a
log. Whenever I tell myself that, I find it impossible to write, however.
It is not enough to
record. A deeper reason has to be found.
...
Whenever I look for the ideal of a ‘
perfect journal’, I always find myself returning to
Brandon, and
gaijin.com. Not due to a stellar layout, or any design ability on his part, but because of the way he puts his words down into sentences, one after the other. I suppose that I
trap myself at times, by reading his words, because I want to make my own seem equally
soulful,
profound, or ‘
real’, whatever that means.
I want to be a star going nova, I want what it is I feel to be understood by those few who read my words, regardless of if they’re strangers, friends, family, or uninterested parties that stumbled here via a misdirected
search engine. I want to be
universal, I want to be
passionate.
The longer I take between entries, the more I stay away from
restraint, from
the web in general, I find the colour draining out of my skin. I am unhappy with the quality of my writing and my inability to design, because it seems that I am unable to create, in any sense of the word. Nothing new is coming from me. Everything is
rhetoric and ‘
relevant social commentary’ I’ve picked up from oversized artsy novels.
Pulp trash for the
enlightened.
...
I’m
twenty-two now. I’ve made it further than I thought I ever would, at least as far as time is concerned.
When you’re sixteen, twenty-two is a world away.
I am only starting to learn what that means. I am only starting to understand that I am not still sixteen. I still accidentally answer ‘sixteen’ sometimes when asked
my age. A slip, but not an overly embarrassing one.
...
Perhaps it’s not that
things are falling apart, as it appears and has appeared for quite some time. Perhaps things simply
decay, and
atrophy, and are constantly in a state where they appear to be rusting, if care is not taken to preserve them.
I expect every morning to be better than the night previous, because that’s the way things were when I was sixteen. It was the
summer of plenty, and there were always more of whatever I needed. Friends, money, laughs, cigarettes, run-ins with authority that only served to
further my awareness of
my own immortality.
Things will not be better in the morning anymore. The world no longer prepares itself for me while I sleep. I am no longer nearly as important; the universe has learned to get along without my constant help.
...
It’s never in the
mornings that the dread sets in. It’s only in the
early afternoon, when the limitations of my own abilities set in, and the competition and challenges of finding full-time work present themselves. (I cannot rely on
contract work any further. I do not have the
dedication.)
I am not where I want to be.
And the world will not carry me there.