writing

i come back to this spot every blue moon. i don't really know why it strikes, or how it strikes, but it does, and i'm compelled to write for a while -- because words have pretty easily tumbled forth over the past decades, and... in some weird way, it's comforting.

i think i have to credit two things that allow to me write these days: my brother, who gave me a blank journal at a young age, and my english teachers. i don't know if the blank journal was a convenient gift or a very well-thought-out one, but i wrote a lot, and easily, and it just helped those childhood and teenage emotional swings -- that no one else but a blank journal could understand or receive. a silent listener. there are piles of filled journals now, somewhere, full of anguish and stupidity and hilarity. i'd give my children blank journals and a dog. those two things = glorious childhood? :)

and my english teachers. in 8th grade, i didn't write that well. i got strong feedback, something i wasn't used to, and despite impeccable grammar, sometimes the words didn't quite flow -- they'd stumble, or hiccup, or something. but every year from that point, i wrote. a lot. for classes, for myself, for whatever, and despite the hedging and hawing that i do when describing the contradictions of my high school experiences, i give it up entirely to the amazing english teachers who taught me well.

anyway, i'm about a week away from 30. and that seems really really weird to me. i feel like i'm still hedging and hawing and emotionally swinging, and 30 ain't no small number, y'all. hehe. but it's okay, i'm finally starting to understand my tendencies and my inclinations. and they make sense to me, which is sorta nice. and i don't have a blank journal these days (nor a dog, damnit!), but i do type a lot, and sometimes passionately, so it's still a stable force, a quiet listener.