TERRIFIED of TRY TRY TRY AGAIN // DESTINED to DEATH
It seemed to TERRIFY me.
The whole notion and its floating companions of doubt, demise, digital death, all deriving from the history of pattern that I had hidden under for such a long time.
For many seasons, years, moments of my life I found it easy to continue in the digital journaling of my life, documenting the lighter moments with scattered wrecking balls between the beams of the burning sun. Writing in a journal, and or diary had been a common practice from an early age. As I grew and developed it became a mechanism of coping with BEING ALIVE. Being sputtered and spit out in song form was often time the method in which I would cling to oft. I then found it truly enjoyable to write out in non song form experiences of life that I deemed “OF FUTURE INTEREST”. Over the course of the last falling years I just stopped. I retreated into my head. It caused me TERROR visions, leaving it all inside to paint the insides of my head as they saw fit. Death is inevitable, but change is optional. Again, I used to write a lot (a little).
RECOLLECTIONS OF DIARIES NOW GONE
“..I am going into sixth grade. I like Mandy Campbell, her family has a garden store”
“..Jeff was over at my house, it was fun. Abbie came over and Kelly was with her. We played on the park in the backyard for a long time. Jeff heard Abbie telling Kelly that she has a crush on me, so Jeff announced out loud that ABBIE HAS A CRUSH ON JOSH!??? Abbie ran home, and fast, I think she was embarrassed. So I did what I had to do. Jeff and I went over to Abbie’s house and she was in the bathroom and she was crying. In her front room there is a piano and its next to the bathroom. I love that song by Bryan Adams “Everything I do I do it for you” and I had been learning it from Mom. So I started playing that song on the piano, by the bathroom. After a little minute Abbie came out and rested her hands on the piano. I think that helped. We are going out now. I love her.”
These were common themes in my journaling as a kid. While living in Venezuela in 2002 I would write letters every week, religiously (QUITE LITERAL), to my family, who were still living in Nebraska at the time. I don’t know what it is about the documenting of one’s ponderings, positions, parallels, perils and the like through the years of living in the wilderness of the breathing that makes me feel like it is important. But I think that the sentiment is returning to me. I am a father of two babies. Hardly babies anymore.
I try and show color and contrast through activity and talkings with my littles, but am afraid that it will all fade into the blur of the years that “were so long ago” even though they are the current, at the moment. I want to RECORD, in some way, a spotty, patchy documentation of experiences that I believe may be of some sort of SPARK for the future minds of those wonderful critters that are giving so much to me through their eyes. There are selfish parts of the entire NOVEL idea of continuing a digital monologue, for THIS BOY ain’t no saint. CERTAINLY NOT.
Commitments are like prisons
I am going to return as often as I am able and see fit. GOODNESS knows that I won’t trade Friday Donut Bike Rides to type out my mind’s ramblings for a quick fix of endorphin disease on the accomplishment of typing buffoonery on a screen, spitting it all out into a NON-WORLD.
GOD SAVE THE THINGS! (I have never met the queen)
Its 2019. I am fadingly fiery I am dying But so are we all.
Joshua
