not sure where to start

“Is it better to speak or die?”

Call Me By Your Name, 2017

There is an infinite rush associated with the right answer. If I raise my hand, and I spill what you’d like to hear from my mouth, then I am whole. I am worth something. Who am I, if I am not worthy?

There is little I would not do in the pursuit of this rush. Little I would not push myself to do, to suffer, to endure. I must receive it; I will receive it. There will be other times for pleasure, for creating happiness. Who am I, if I am not worthy?

I do find myself subconsciously snickering down at everyone else. It is a nasty habit, and not how I would represent myself with any decisiveness. It is not, though, a genuine distaste for those with balance; it is more an envy that I cannot obtain the lax they possess. To not have acquired an equilibrium of thought and play, while others hold its skeleton key, makes me burn with jealousy. They are laughing at me, open-mouth guffaws, with no fair hand to stifle the volume. I would push myself even further, if there was a further in existence, to succeed. Who am I, if I am not worthy?

For now,

G.D.

 Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning to the end.”

Virginia Woolf, Modern Fiction

To begin this entry, I will detail a bit about myself. I am 21 years of age, and I am not unordinary. I would not stand out in a crowd, and I do not intend to. There is nothing poor about having a place to fit in.

I love many things. My kitten, autumn, the sound of birds singing on a wire, my skirts and boots and lip balm. In almost every thing, there is a thing to love.

What else to say? I have always thought introductions quite boring. We should pretend we know each other already. I would like to detail my life here. Not to share the details of the lives of those I know, or the drama that may permit them, but the feelings and the thoughts that these items provoke from me. Unfortunately, I have an ever-failing memory, and as more time passes I lose the most important aspect of life: the ability to recall experiences. Feeling moments so deeply, with nowhere to chronologize them, is painful; I cannot force my thoughts out on to paper, so perhaps a keyboard will serve me better.

I will write again, all for myself, or for your eyes – another time.

For now,

G.D.