It messes with your mind. I just read through a notebook I kept in 2009. I lived in New Zealand then.
I wrote some fanfiction. I wrote what are without a doubt writing prompts. Ramblings, mostly. A few journal entries were thrown in the mix.
I feel as if I fell through a whole in time. I recognize my writing, my words, but some of it I don’t remember. How did I conceive of this?
Emerging from this whole in time leaves me reeling. What kind of weird rollercoaster did I just go on? I didn’t sign up for this. Or perhaps I did. When I keep a journal I don’t just want to get rid of the stuff that’s happening at the time. I plan on going back to it eventually; when I don’t clearly remember any of it any more. All the details vanish. What remains are the big things and even those get muddled in our memories.
There was never a time in my life when I didn’t write. Except the time before I learned how to.
Lately I’ve not been writing enough for myself.
I sit at my desk in the morning, work laid out in front of me. But I’m not feeling it. It pays the bills, but it gets harder ever day to get started. Once the first article is written, it gets easier. But I look at my notebook and feel guilty, because that’s where I should put my words down instead.
Thinking of the bills coming up, I know I’m doing the right thing by getting the paid work out of the way first. Later, I think, later I can do my own stuff. Discipline is hard. I keep going back to crunching the numbers. It keeps me on track. Now, long after I finished the paid work I still sit at my desk, feeling better about the things I’m writing now.
This is for me. This is me.
I may not go back to reading old journals. But I have tons of notebooks full of scribbles. Reading those reminds me of what I can do. There are many paths I can go down. I just need to figure out which one works best.
By the way, this is what I’m listening to right now. I find it fitting somehow.