I’ve written a lot of my life down. And I believe a lot of it sounds crazy. People may come to read my entries and become embarassed for me. I become embarassed while I read thorugh through the arc of my maturity that lays quite dramatically on display. What’s left to be found is not what I felt, but how I felt it.
I feel everything so deeply, I don’t know why, but I know that I cannot change. Consistently and relentlessly every experience cuts so far in. Writing it down helps me let go. My head is so filled with all these thoughts, these little things that just zoom! and grow, and evolutionize. They become mosters of their own. I need to write them down to make sense of it. To make sense of my head.
I am not sorry about the discomfort caused by the content of my notebooks as time comes to pass. I do not regret writing down all my foolish confessions. All I can hope for it that whomever these idea’s come to may find a small solace, that they are not alone.
I write to undo the troubles I cannot solve. With my mind free, I move on. I build, I live, I do not survive. I am not sorry, and we are not so different.
