journaling thingies, lifeshit, all the things!
dear future this, I’m back at this again, and I can’t rightly explain as to the why. perhaps therein lies the maddening compulsion we creative intellects prosper in such wanton mischief…we will never know the why, and we don’t need to. just as alchies at an AA meeting tell themselves they’re an alcoholic like its a damning fate, so too writers + artists.
dear future someone, anyone, and everyone, tomorrow is the last day of the year 2025. I wish I could say there was something beyond the passing of my dad, but there wasn’t. and I miss him more now than ever. especially when the holidaze that followed his passing were his favorite times indeed. yet the world didn’t care, people I thought should didn’t. all you could expect were sympathy hallmark cards, fake gestures of concern, some who I thought should care didn’t. people process grief in wierd ways or none at all, like they were emotionally detached from the reality of death, and the finiteness of this existence. last day 7:25 AM I purchased a new journal at Barnes at Southpoint mall, using sister #2’s gift card for $50 she gave me over Christmas. there were numerous kids oogling the selection there. I found it strange actually, and wanted to ask them ‘you guys actually write shit?’ or rather, more pressing was wtf did they have to even write about? their online life? some cyberbullies? …
how I felt moving from Chiraq to North Carolina. is there a sacrifice? yes.
