in the last few days, i have taken up the habit of writing down certain thoughts that come to me. they’re not profound in any way, but they’re just the sort of things that you end up thinking about and keep coming back to because you need to relish the way you process things, or maybe you enjoy the self-torment.
it’s honestly amazing how often i think of things, how repetitive those thoughts can get, how desperate they sound, like i’m pleading for something that has no rationale behind it. but at the same time it’s an exercise in being honest with myself. i can’t count how many times i’ve withheld things from myself because it was as though writing them down meant acknowledging how real they were or how small i felt. but the more i force it, the more i trudge through and convince myself that it’s okay to feel a little sting now and again, it’s almost easier.
certain things come out in these few and frequent minutes of free association. i find myself writing what seems like a novel, put the pen down, and then picking it up again seconds later, and i’m like, “christ, really? can i shut up now, how much more do i actually have to say?” and then, of course, it turns out that i can’t mute myself and that it’s useless to even try. during these moments, i’ll exhaust myself to the point of aggravation, and that’s usually the time where repressed thoughts come bulldozing through.
some of them are really distressing to me, in the sense that it never occurred to me how strong my opinions and feelings can be if i wasn’t constantly trying to censor myself from feeling a certain way. things i wouldn’t have ever considered about somebody in every day interaction turn out to be grand revelations. there was this moment i was writing about somebody - or, rather, to somebody (because really, these are letters to people as i see fit), and it was just like, “i fucking trust you, isn’t that weird?” it came out of nowhere. i didn’t actually realize i felt that way because truth be told, it’s only been a recent development where we’ve interacted a bit more. but despite the recency, it was so easy to feel that way, which is why i thought it was weird.
not all of them are as nice, unfortunately.
i used to joke a lot with my friend that i needed to feel “this” way again because it was the only way i was inspired to write anything, to draw upon little dramas and immortalize them in fiction or journalistic endeavors. and of course we laughed about it and poked fun at the way i sometimes actively looked to get hurt, but now that i’m a bit older and just a tad bit wiser, i have to say that there’s nothing inspiring about this.
except for the fact it really is.
in a way, it’s that tiny optimism, that fraction of amusement i’m garnering from this experience, that’s getting me through everything.
