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written words for slipping memories.

i never post in here any more. well that's not necessarily true, i've posted at least three times this month, i think. what i mean is, i don't post in here like i used to. and i should. i really should, because, well, like tonight, espressolotus linked to an entry from exactly two years ago, wondering what the hell we were talking about - and it was that awesome beltane "festival," and it's just so fun to go back and see all the little things you might have forgotten, see exactly what you were doing and thinking years ago. i read a couple days further, talking about bright eyes, and leaving that last class with him.. and.. gosh. i'm just very sensitive about losing memories, because, over the years, so many, almost all, of the physical objects were lost or destroyed, and so losing these moments to the obfuscating sands of memory, is something that is irrationally scary and sad to me. and i just don't want myself to stop writing things down, to have nothing to come back to later..

okay, i've been reading another augusten burroughs memoir, one of the collections of essays, and it's just gotten me in a strange mood again, i don't know.. i identify with him, and it makes me look at my life, and, not even ever to sell or anything, i just want to write everything down.

and i also wonder if maybe i should just write a fucking book. not necessarily about myself or anything, but i just mean, in general. i need something, and when he talked about what it was like to write his first book, just the sheer accomplishment of having created a book from nothing, even if it was a crap book, you've still written a book. it's just something i can completely imagine, i can so easily imagine that feeling, and i crave it. because all my life, teachers, family, friends have told me, you're a great writer, your writing is so great, you should be a writer. and i've accepted this, and yet, constantly tell myself - no. there's no way you could be a writer. you could produce nothing of quality.

but why can't i? tons of people do it. i am technically capable of doing it. and even if it totally sucked, and was interesting only to me, and nobody else ever read it, you know. at least i'd have that feeling, of making something that didn't exist before. the act of creation.

and then, in a way, and back to the original point, i do have that - it's chaotic, and intermittent, sometimes cryptic or filled with holes, but this livejournal, now over 2500 entries, is a work all in itself. all together, it tells a story, the only written record of many years of my life. and as time races on, seemingly ever faster, and the details slip away, i will be even more glad that i took the time to write things down.

and i need to continue, and do it more.


this entry was originally supposed to be about things that are going on, and not just some dumb meta entry about how i like that i make entries and need to make more.. about the things that go on? but then i got sidetracked. and now my slight inebriation is making it ever more difficult to continue to hold my head up, so, good night for now.