There’s something about a blank notebook, isn’t there? Especially one that’s as beautiful on the outside as the potential on the inside. It’s a bit terrifying too, then, that you might sully its potential by filling it with stupid musings and illegible handwriting. Also, all that blankness… no matter how many dates and time signifiers you give it, the blank pages don’t really know you, don’t know what has lead to you to the place you’re in when the pen first hits the page.
Even as a kid, I’d try to catch my notebook up, as it were, filling it in with my life up till that moment. Needless to say, this attitude makes it hard for me to ever get very far with a diary. Now I instead prefer the comfort of an unpretentious composition book, so lovely in its modesty. It doesn’t mind if you scribble in the margins, or use pen, then pencil, then highlighter, or fill one page with to-do lists and the next with doodles. In fact, it prefers the anonymity. And I do too.
Except that I’ll never have a section of my shelf for old notebooks, because, like chapstick, I can never keep hold of one for long. I’ll never be able to look back and see who I was at a certain point in my life, which is too bad, because even weeks or months ago are lost to the confusion of my agitated brain. I suffer from what I like to think of as post-traumatic emotional memory loss, a problem where I act and make decisions based on emotions that I can’t remember after the fact. Maybe everyone feels that way. Have you ever broken up with someone, but then can’t emotionally remember why you did it? You can easily explain to someone the reasons why it was the right decision, but you can’t feel it? Because I have, just recently actually. I also can’t evoke the love I felt for that person, though I know it was there.
So, life’s hard. Always has been, but I forgot.
Do you ever feel yourself growing up? That too-tight shoes, too-short sleeves feeling, but with your whole existence, everything you know and are? And like the coma-alien abduction-magic-addled mind of a sci-fi/fantasy protagonist, everything is familiar, yet different? And you’re not sure if you’re coming or going? “Is a hurricane a’blowing?” Music and sounds and sights and smells wash over me now, tugging at my heart strings, buffeting me in their breeze; all I want to do is stay still, just for once, so I can figure out what’s fabricated and what’s real, what’s me.
It really makes a woman want to crawl into her bed and not come out for a long while. It should be mentioned here that I’m in the middle of moving to NYC, and I don’t currently have a bed, which is a total bummer for a number of reasons, the least of which is that I don’t have anywhere to go when I just want to disappear. Instead I find myself in other people’s beds, where I can find another sort of escape, the kind where you get to pretend your life is something totally different than it is. The problem being that refuge is heavy responsibility to put on a person, and its unfair to be disappointed when they can’t withstand the pressure. Ultimately I think and know deep in my bones that being alone in NYC is going to be epically good for me. But man, it is hard being in the limbo between bad and good for a little while.
So there you have it, pseudo-journal on the Internet. My life up to now… at least, my life right now.