Write in My Diary

For all intensive purposes, I re-learn how to write an Open Diary entry every time I do it. The phrasing starts out stiff and chunky like it is right now. I am unable to compose comprehensible thoughts. Short and detached stacatto sentences possibly containing words spelled wholly incorrectly are strewn about with the non-chalance of a frothy-mouthed demon in frothy-mouthed demon land. And then, if I stick with it for more than two or three entries in a row, a trend emerges: quality out of crap. The observations become more poignant. The metaphors less blatant. The insight more memorable. The stories more entertaining. An arc is displayed. Out of nothingness, chaos. Out of chaos, stability.

Right now it’s nothingness but I’m sensing a trend toward chaos and less of an arc.

Let’s move away, she says, because wouldn’t it be nice to drop everything and start different lives? No, he says. He thinks he isn’t needed anymore. Okay, she says, and they go about their business. Let’s move away, he says, because wouldn’t it be nice to drop everything and start different lives? You’re thinking irrationally, she says. She’s dying for liberation and living for isolation. Grandpa verbally abuses grandma. Bars are for seedy old men. Thoughts I have are thoughts they have.

I’m becoming a fan of goal-oriented gaming. Maybe that’s how people are when they get older. Get 100,000 points. Beat this in under twelve minutes. Do this without dying. For what? A sense of accomplishment?

Cause we all fucking know it. If there’s nothing to tell people you did, you haven’t really done much of anything, have you?

Self-indulgence is really exactly what it means.