This Other Life (Continued)...

So I log.
Because that’s how I roll. I don’t journal well. I don’t care to call what I do journaling (even though that’s what it is, I simply don’t care for that classification. As though somehow classifying type of journaling (writing; anything. Everything) somehow matters? As though to brand it, makes it easier to ~to interweave an example ~ tone police and produce an elitism where there not need be. To draw straws (I’m one of many talents) a journal, somehow distinct from diary if only because males do one and not the other, is, at its core, BASED ON THE SAME PREMISE. But that ‘males’ are the default and somehow ‘neutral’ -the word journal appears more and more on notebooks, gets more variety while diaries remain on the whole, pink. And sometimes sold with a lock and key. We are kept silent while being the gatekeepers of secrets. That ‘neutral’ term, by the way, is composition. It’s such a good thing blogs aren’t gendered (real or imagined). Except for the initial choices of themes available. But that’s simply a complaint (so said), neither here nor there. Blogging is not writing. I don’t enjoy it because it hampers my freedom of movement and the contents can be easily lost simply for forgetting to save it or of any other factors whereas a notebook is the best constant portable companion. Commas too but sometimes I war with punctuations especially commas because I hate typing. Free flow for me is free from punctuation (on a laptop) whereas my writing is near perfect complete with all punctuation, and I even write faster than I type. Writing is best ~especially if upon getting stuck I can squiggle until I can refocus. There is no distraction with writing -only a refocusing. Dictionaries and Thesaurisesus -this must sound like dinosaur of a Seussian nature of course-used to be books. They still are, but who uses references anymore? (Even I can’t say that I do since my physical copies are elsewhere. Shame).

Ah but getting over the medium with which I am currently using, I ‘write’.
Because it’s the only way to express what I think I’m thinking, only not because unlike my thoughts, this is edited. Revisited. Re-edited. Is that really much of a distinction, though? Likely not. But as long as there’s a word for it, manufacturing distinctions IS our favorite past time. Yet…I feel revisited is where it’s different. Once more, I’m a visual -hahahahaha-. If I don’t see it, I don’t remember it -it is not revisited. What I see, I expand. What I think, I must run and catch. Unless it’s on a train then fuck it. It’s gone. I’ll just meander over elsewhere. For that destination is not my end. There’s something more, something different.

Therefore I write.
Because writing is a skill that I haven’t cultivated yet haven’t really lost. Not a prolific writer because I’m not quite as detailed as I would like to be. I’m not detailed because that’s not my style. It’s [also] not my method because I don’t practice. All things in life are circles the epicenter being my Self. In this case, my Lazy self. I don’t wanna. When I don’t wanna I can take that time fabricating excuses than generating results. Time wasted, never to return.

There’s no time like now to begin. Or restart as is my case.

Hence I write.
Because I have written these words before -I am as more familiar with them than my friends. In fact I have used these against friends. I hate repeating myself yet repeat myself I must. Even though it is already in physical form! Some are simply better hearers than readers. No worries, audio booked! But…it won’t have the same balance as if they see and understood it written. Shame. Words are for everyone yet I hoard them. All the words. Especially the ones I don’t know. They’re hiding in my cranium somewhere. Unless they took the train. To wherever. Fuck them those thats.

Words are fun to play with. Consequently, I write. Without all the repercussions of discussions or dealing with other existent characters I never created. Irony. Maybe. I don’t journal well. I diary even worse. But I write anyway out of necessity. Not my peace of mind. Your eventual elucidation. I’m already encrystalightened. Don’t be jealous. Hurry up and level up. You’re welcome.

As I traveled forward in time (for I have somehow stopped growing or obtaining age) I seemed to have devolved from my haughty words to simply haughty speech. All the terminology and expressions no one used normally (oh how elitist!), I had spoken and written. But now, I don’t use those words in particular but kept the pattern. You’re welcome for that explanation <- perfection in exampling. (**Just so you actually get it -words by themselves are words whereas by haughty speech I meant actual use of). Most people find it hard to follow along -and by most I do mean native speakers. How more intimidating it must be to have to try to understand as a second…or third…or ninth language. If we really wanted to confuse each other, we’d simply use slang instead.