---
title: journal-001
date: 2025-05-11T08:11:03.874Z
sn_id: 977206
banner: remember.jpg
---

I've been reading @plebpoet's [journal](https://www.plebpoet.com/journal.html). I'll write a few words every now and then and hope they survive.

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When I write, I don't want to write; I want to be done and see what I've written. I want the words to stream out of my fingers like a magic spell. The words should write themselves; I shouldn't need to think about them. When I have to think about them, my words start to feel fake, forced, insincere, calculated, meaningless. They might as well be someone else's words. When this happens, I usually delete everything I've written when I open the file the next day. I hope this won't happen with these words. It's starting to feel that way.

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It's okay if I don't know _how_ to write something, but I should know _what_ I want to write. I usually do know what I want to write before I open the text editor. But once I stare at the blank page, I feel empty. It's the moment of truth, and I'm full of lies. It hurts.

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There are many things I want to write about, but I don't, because I am afraid. I am afraid that it will look like I am seeking attention, because maybe that is true. It won't be the whole truth, but it will be part of it.

Don't we all like some attention, in our own specific ways? Isn't love essentially limitless attention? Am I guilty of desperately seeking love? I think so, because writing this made me cry.

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I have been a terrible boyfriend. I know it; she didn't have to tell me. I even knew it at the time, but I was too comfortable being terrible. I pushed all responsibility away from myself by assuming she would tell me if something was wrong. Even when I knew something was wrong, I still trusted her answers—that nothing was wrong—more than my own feelings, because it was too convenient. I trusted her, but I failed. I could have been better.

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When we broke up, I told her all the things I had been thinking about doing to fix things blindly. I would have done whatever she wanted me to do to get us back to how things were before. She said it was too late. It still hurts.

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I miss the cute sounds she would make when I said something kitschy. I miss us chirping like birds together. I miss having someone with whom I can be silly.
