| 2004: |
| january / feburary / march / april / may / june / july / august / september / october / november / december |
| rantings archinve |
| topic : for your reading pleasure...my words |
| date : april 21, 04 |
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| when i was eleven i started a diary. i was young and happy and felt like writing it down. i found that diary recently, stuck beneath a box of old magazines under my bed. most of the pages were blank. a few had some words, like poems, scribbled across them. most of them were covered with tiny little stickers and smiley-faces. i was eleven. there were a few pages of writing... i read them like i was reading some one else's words. [i don't even remember having a crush on grantland rice] ever since that first attempt at journaling, i've always kept documentation of my thoughts, in some form. in high school, it was a little blue book the size of my palm. i wrote about the baseness of highschool and of my existence and how much i wanted from it all. so much more than i had. i was surrounded by friends back then, thinner, bored, and more lonely than i could accurately put into words. so, i wrote about everything, and nothing at all. i carried it around with me, in my pocket mostly, because it was just small enough to fit. for the longest time, i was afraid to let people read. when asked to share, i'd slam it shut and blush -- no. i'm sorry. its personal. if i accidently left it unattended, i'd freak out, praying that it had remained untouched by any who happened to be passing by. then one day, i watched as one of the pages flew out the open window of the car. it flew out before i could grab it. my words. flying away. left in the open night for someone to find. who knows. maybe someone did. and then i thought, would it really be that bad for people to read what i'm writing. so i started opening the blue book when asked. and then, after some time, i started willingly putting my words out there in other places. here, even. i still write in that blue book, sometimes. it sits, open, on my desk. open for anyone to look through it. i stopped worrying who read. i stopped being scared. these days, i don't carry it around anymore. there are only a few more blank pages left and i'm starting to feel okay with the fact that it is soon going to be retired. instead, i've shifted. where i used to mostly manually write, now i type. sometimes i post what i think, most of the times, i don't. but what is good is, i don't care that you are reading it. not really. instead, these days i'm fascinated that you do. my life is boring, incessantly repetitious. i promise. i package myself here for you into little dated boxes and i know sometimes they make little / or no / sense. that's how i like it. someday, i'll retire this place too, and put my words elsewhere. but until then, read on, friends, read on. |