At some point in the past four years, I forgot how important it is for me to keep a daily journal.
It's been a really strange year for me on so many levels. So many jarring transitions, so many new things to explore, so much stimuli to distract me. My enthusiasm for my projects come in spurts, and I'm usually burnt out on them by the time the stream runs dry. This isn't entirely normal for me, and it doesn't lead to sustainable outcomes. I've tried a lot of ways to counter this -- making a set of daily rules to follow, writing numerous to-do lists every day, keeping my spaces clean enough to think in -- but nothing stuck. And lately, I've been experiencing really strange emotional outbursts in which I get entirely too upset about things that have never bothered me so much before. I was right to think the two are related.
Then, I had the bright fucking idea to open up that old notebook and scratch some real words out, breaking a streak of writing largely for posterity or publication. I began my first entry by apologizing to the notebook for mistreating it in the past; for coming to it only when I need to find something or out of desperation, for making it my permanent foul-weather friend. Then, I promised to come to it every day, regardless of the weather, so I could begin to forge a map of my good and bad patterns and hopefully learn what the hell my problem is.
That was a week ago. Reading through the entries, I see sentences on paper that have been too easy to ignore in my subconscious. Writing them out has done something remarkable to my grasp of reality, and this afternoon, I remembered that it has a long history with me. I used to do this back when I was 10 years old, long before I needed to map out my subconscious hang-ups, and I just kept doing it until...well, about four years ago, I guess... and I've never really stopped doing it long enough to realize how much I needed it.
It's like meditation. It's where I get to be totally honest with myself and not have to face any ensuing reactions, but in writing out an honest description of my reality, I'm forced to physically etch the scenes into existence -- it has the effect of cement. After they're written, they won't be scratched out or erased, and every time I flip back on them, I will see the same portrait of a single frame from my life that I forged into existence through the act of writing it down. It's powerful, man.
If a life unexamined is not worth living, then a notebook and a pen might be my mirror of choice.
It's been a really strange year for me on so many levels. So many jarring transitions, so many new things to explore, so much stimuli to distract me. My enthusiasm for my projects come in spurts, and I'm usually burnt out on them by the time the stream runs dry. This isn't entirely normal for me, and it doesn't lead to sustainable outcomes. I've tried a lot of ways to counter this -- making a set of daily rules to follow, writing numerous to-do lists every day, keeping my spaces clean enough to think in -- but nothing stuck. And lately, I've been experiencing really strange emotional outbursts in which I get entirely too upset about things that have never bothered me so much before. I was right to think the two are related.
Then, I had the bright fucking idea to open up that old notebook and scratch some real words out, breaking a streak of writing largely for posterity or publication. I began my first entry by apologizing to the notebook for mistreating it in the past; for coming to it only when I need to find something or out of desperation, for making it my permanent foul-weather friend. Then, I promised to come to it every day, regardless of the weather, so I could begin to forge a map of my good and bad patterns and hopefully learn what the hell my problem is.
That was a week ago. Reading through the entries, I see sentences on paper that have been too easy to ignore in my subconscious. Writing them out has done something remarkable to my grasp of reality, and this afternoon, I remembered that it has a long history with me. I used to do this back when I was 10 years old, long before I needed to map out my subconscious hang-ups, and I just kept doing it until...well, about four years ago, I guess... and I've never really stopped doing it long enough to realize how much I needed it.
It's like meditation. It's where I get to be totally honest with myself and not have to face any ensuing reactions, but in writing out an honest description of my reality, I'm forced to physically etch the scenes into existence -- it has the effect of cement. After they're written, they won't be scratched out or erased, and every time I flip back on them, I will see the same portrait of a single frame from my life that I forged into existence through the act of writing it down. It's powerful, man.
If a life unexamined is not worth living, then a notebook and a pen might be my mirror of choice.
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