35 lines
2.3 KiB
Markdown
35 lines
2.3 KiB
Markdown
---
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title: journal-001
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date: 2025-05-11T08:11:03.874Z
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sn_id: 977206
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banner: remember.jpg
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---
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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.
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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.
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