It becomes thoroughly clear at 3:23am, when I have been tired for ages and have to get up in 3 hours, that I am depressed. Very depressed. Neglecting friends and things I owe them. Just wanting to sleep forever. And sure this is public. Fuck it. I’m not ashamed of my struggles.
I’m honest. Deal, or don’t. I’m so far past caring.
So I have a lot of blank notebooks. And by a lot, apparently I mean 13. In actuality, I am 100% certain there are more….somewhere. I have a bit of a thing for notebooks. And pens. And other generic office supply type of goods.
The point being, I have a lot of notebooks, and the reason I have a lot of notebooks is because I love to write. Journalling mostly. Random thoughts. Echos of character dialogue, the things I don’t want anyone to see, really. It’s completely ridiculous how many of these books I have filled over the last 15 years, particularly given the fact that I have had multiple blogs which serve the same purposes, the most long-lived covering the years 2001-2011.
But at the end of the day I still come back to notebooks, because there’s something about the feel of them, the sense of accomplishment of setting pen to page that I just don’t get the same feeling from on a computer. Not only that, but each book tends to have its own lifespan that has nothing to do with the number of pages it contains. It goes by my life, and when I feel it’s time to start a new chapter.
And so here I am. I ended one notebook today. I started it immediately after breaking up with my ex, and ended it when I said “enough” to my feelings for someone else. It is a nice circle, if heartbreak can be ‘nice’. So it’s time for a new book. And I have 13 to choose from. Being bored I put them all in a gallery for this post. Yes, I am that bored. I don’t know which I’ll chose yet, and they come in every shape and type. Time will tell I suppose.
I lack the ability to keep my feelings to myself. I am honestly incapable of it. If I feel something I express it. I often try not to, as I prefer not to be such a giant open book to everyone in my life, but I never manage to succeed. I have always admired those people who are good at closing themselves off. So when I tell things, I tell them because I have to. Because it’s crawling up my insides and eating away at me. Because I feel like the person deserves to know, even if they choose not to do anything with that information.
There’s just something comforting in the fact that if I were to die tomorrow, I can honestly say that there is no one in my life who doesn’t know how I feel about them. I am not ambiguous.
But it’s not always as easy as it seems. You don’t often get the same courtesy in return. People don’t know what to do with open, naked emotion. People don’t always want to know how you feel about them.
It’s not always a gift.
Sometimes I wish I could keep things to myself.
Song of the moment: “Shake it Out — Florence & The Machine”.