Anyway, I have always kept my childhood journals with me... they remind me of my roots as a writer; they demonstrate how far I have come; and sometimes, they have wise and valuable lessons inside.
Tonight is one of those nights.
Whoa. moment #1:
I've been reading the rather juvenile ramblings of the 12-14 year old me (it's gone from uncomfortable to merely amusing in recent years)... and as I read, it dawns on me that as long as I have been writing, I have been looking for someone else to fill this void of "love" in me. and look at the nearly 28-year-old me... still looking to fill this stupid void, and all the while I have looked for another human (OK, let's be real here... a boyfriend, a lover, a whatever) to make it go away. And tonight, I realize something life-altering, perhaps: No person is ever going to fill this gaping, fucking void. It's a hole I either have to patch myself, or alternately, live with, in absence of healing.
Whoa. moment #2:
Check out this note to myself (juxtaposed to my, please love me and make me whole, bent on life...) dated 3 January 1993 (13 years ago, I cannot even believe it. forgive the poor syntax and grammar... I was 14. It's the message in there... I make no claims as to this as a solid piece of writing, because frankly... it isn't.)
it isn't in what you think you want.
it isn't in your conscious loves and desires.
happiness is in your unseen thoughts.
you love the most what you outwardly don't go after,
and if it leaves, you see how much it means.
happiness isn't lots of material possessions
it isn't being the best.
happiness is being your own person, no matter what.
postscript: Tocatta and Fugue in D Minor still inspires me to be an artist.
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