I’m three pages out from finishing my current journal, and the last time I graced the miscellaneous section of this blog I was finishing the one before that. I’m accumulating an impressive pile of unassuming, plain black notebooks on my bedside table–so many that they will have to be moved somewhere else eventually. It’s impractical. I remember seeing a video of Tavi Gevinson locking hers away in a safe, which is exactly how dramatic I would like to be one day about the importance of my words.
I’m not sure who I’m writing for anymore, if I’m honest, apart from myself. But when I get close to the end of a journal I get so excited to start another one. I’ve already mentioned that I start them with quotes (2015-17 was Kurt Vonnegut, 2017-18 was Tavi) because I like to take a guess at an epigraph. In novels these are usually done afterwards, or at least during. Starting a new era of my life by taking a chance, guessing those words might mean something to me in the future, is hopeful. It assumes a future that doesn’t always seem so sure. This time around, it’s George Saunders: “There’s a moment of truth where you let everything you actually are to the table. And you may not even know what that is, and often I think you don’t even like it. But the stuff that you maybe unconsciously have been trying to keep out of the conversation is the stuff that saves you–if you’re brave enough to let it in.”
In a lot of ways I feel like I’m back where I started. I’ve neglected writing because I’ve been tired, and sometimes doing this is sadder for me than not doing it, because I remember how good it makes me feel and I kick myself for not making the time. Making the time isn’t even a strong enough phrase. Fighting for the time, or tearing back the time, or raging against the night, losing sleep, crying, screaming, going hungry for the time. However, I am doing something. I’m cycling through eras, bridging several volumes of scrappy journals, a lot of the time so tired that it’s visible in my script. And I’m nagging myself more and more, because I’ll be turning 23 next year, and 24 after that, and no matter how hard I try to pull the brakes through all this documenting, it isn’t going any slower.
I have become that person who wishes something so hard that they expend all their energy on the wishing, rather than the doing. There’s a reason I write so many god damn poems about sleeping.