Previously:

There is, at this moment, a deep compulsion to write.

This is not something new in any way. It is in fact a common enough occurrance that those close enough to me know not to expect too much from it. This ebbs and flows, comes and goes. More often than not, I ignore it and produce nothing. Other times, I scribble in a well-worn journal. Nonsensical epistles and epiphanies, observations and queer notions crowd pages that I seldom glance at after I've vented upon them.

I do not fancy myself a 'writer' in the authoritative sense, nor have I received any clear insight into myself (not that I have been attempting any such feat). My writings aren't prolific and neither are they profound. If I do get personal, it is never in detailed circumstances or events; vagueness lends itself to emotions and that is frankly what I tend to dwell on most. Don't misunderstand me - I can reason my way out of most anything using logic with a smattering of rhetoric. But my reasoning is quite often dictated by how I'm feeling at that instant. Duplicitous, I know.

Nevertheless, I offer no apologies. I'm not here to explain or defend myself. I am here simply to write.


This is still true. A few weeks of pen and paper did not quell this, though a bout with writer's cramp nearly did me in.

A discovery was made, however. I do not ever tell you the whole story here. No I don't know why, not for certain, at any rate. It seems my online journal is a rough draft. Unlike many journallers out here, I do not write in a text program, edit, rewrite and then post it here. This is always the first cut. My paper diaries are more thought out, more detailed, better grammar, punctuation, blah blah blah.

It doesn't make sense, really. No one ever touches my written words. Odd that I would be comfortable with half-assed work in a public forum. *shrug*

I don't think that will change. I'm not writing here for you. So much of what I start here gets translated and reworked through my pen that I don't even know if any of my online journal makes sense to outside readers. You there, beyond the fourth wall, do I seem coherent at all?

Doesn't matter. No offense.

I'm living in fragments. Little slices of time, usually only a few minutes long. About the length of a song, actually.

Do you see where I've been, where I'm going with this?

Yes, my mom has been nagging about the family history again which always takes me down my own personal memory lane (nostalgia whore, remember?). We all played the interview game and repeatedly there were questions about music - soundtrack of your life? makes you cry? makes you happy? why? - and I've been using music to remember moments. The fragments.

And so I'm writing some here.

Some of them may even be true, if incomplete.


p.s. I'm disabling the subscriber notification, for now. In case I post a few times at a single sitting I don't want to piss anyone off with a bunch of "Great googely moogely! Darwin's updated!" notifications in their email.

*Darwin does not spam*