crappyRecently, though, I've been re-examining the reasons for writing. (This is sort of like a cow chewing an eternal piece of cud). I know that it keeps me sane (at least journaling), but should I really be bothered outside of that?
I also have wondering about the point of Live journal. There is something about writing here that I find uncomfortable. The immediate audience, perhaps, or, relatedly, lack of freedom. I write to work through things; my thoughts without the benefit of sentence structure and basic grammar are like gazelles on the plain, frolicking freely, without a care, unaware of the lions behind the bush. As I write tonight, I feel like jackals are lurking over my shoulder. I've seen this thing become a tool of drama. I hate drama.
This is not a journal and I need to realize that. It is something else. I cannot allow myself to be inhibited in my journal-writing. I hope to use it in the coming year to document my reading. I want to see how many books I read in a year. I've heard of people shooting for 50, but I have no goal in mind. I just want to document and record for posterity and curiosity.
Besides this, I'm so tired of feeling overwhelmed. I usually have my Christmas shopping done by the day after Thanksgiving; this year, thanks to school and job hunting, it didn't happen. My enthusiasm for the holiday has, understandably, waned this year. 2004 cannot end soon enough; it has been, hands down, the worst year of my life. I plan on taking a 2004 calendar, and shitting on it on New Years' Day. Besides rosepurr, I cannot point to a single thing this year worth a fucking damn.
Damn, I've written myself into a hole of depression. The first rule of holes - stop digging.
