Wednesday, 2 June 2010

With All We Used To Have

It's times like this I wish I can write sensibly.

Not that everything I'm currently writing is nonsensical, nor is everything I'm writing a complete and utter shit. It seems to me...that I type better than I write.

I try writing stories on paper, and they look bittersweet. Sweet, because the plot is lovely, but bitter because my handwriting isn't exactly the neatest. I can fix that though; it's what to write about that causes a bit of a block.

I've tried and failed, many times, to keep a journal. Not a diary; I loath writing "Dear Diary." It's a bit too...girl for me, and I hated nothing more than to be a girly girl. A journal it is, then. But the simple fact still remains that I'll probably never keep one, which is sad because I'm seeing so many notebooks that look just pretty, but I can never bring myself to buy one because I know they'll eventually go to waste.

The reason why I can never keep a journal is because I am only tempted to write in it when I have something profound and lovely to write about, or when I'm pissed off and mad and need to let off some steam. Unfortunately, the latter is more likely, and they never end up well. I still remember cleaning out my shelves the other time, and I remembered vividly how much I cringed when I reread a single entry about how I was mad at the world. It wasn't that it wasn't passionate enough; it just felt, weird? Childish? The words I plain, so commonplace. I lashed out, and it was terrible, reading it again. Once more I felt like the strange kid with so much anger.

The fact that my handwriting wasn't exactly top-notch ruined it even more.

I have always envied the way people can stick to a diary or a journal for more than a month. It just feels to me that it's such a bother to write about daily feelings and all that. I much prefer to keep it all in my head, relive them. There was always this fear that if I ever wrote a diary, someone would one day find it out and read it. You'd probably think it be no big deal, but you have no idea how violated it feels.

A mate of mine used to write journals which she'd then send to me to read, kind of our little way to keep in touch. At first, I thought it was cool. I'd get to be updated on her life, and I'd get to see inside her head. Curiosity is always my biggest vice; there's always something inside my head that demanded for answers. How does it work? Why do we do this? Why does this happen? As more and more inadequate replies are given to me, I finally gave it up. I kept on asking questions, but instead of relying on others, I figured the only way I'd understand is if I do my own research. So I learn. So I know. It's probably one of the reasons why I rely more on my hands and myself and what I can do instead of on other people, even when I'm supposed to.

But I digress. (Which is weird because I never truly got what "digress" actually meant. Oh, it actually means to turn aside from a particular topic.)

So I read. And it was cool, for a while. Then as things started getting more and more personal, it felt as though I was violating her privacy, even though she'd handed me the journals with her permission to read them. In case you didn't know, I'm a really private person. It bugged me constantly, because if I already felt violated reading her deepest thoughts and feelings, how much more so, then, would I feel if someone had read mine?

Needless to say, after the first or second time of reading her journals, I completely stopped going through them for the remaining month or so before I returned them. It just felt wrong, is all.

Hey, you.

It's been a while since we chatted. I'm sorry, but it seems to me that, after a while, after we've exhausted everything, after everything that needs to be said and done has been said and done, I feel like there's nothing left. That there's this void that needs to be forded for something else to happen, for another topic of conversation to come up. Which will never happen the way you want it to.

It scares me a little that I feel strange in the beginning, when we didn't talk that much anymore. At first I thought that it's shifted, this whole thing. Then I realised that I was getting bored of everything. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. After we've done it all I feel the startings of boredom, suffocating me deeply. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm so used to the way you were always there that it's becoming routine.


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