When I look back and read my older journals, it’s always the benign things that hit me the hardest. Today my cousin came over to the house, he rang the doorbell, he invited me to the river. My dad said that I couldn’t go and had to stay home, and I was mad. Family politics. Teenage angst.
I was cognizant of time, and how time passes. I wrote to myself. I’m sitting in my chair, my legs are on the table, I’m chatting with my friends. I thought life would never be different than it was right then. Always some variation of that moment. It was still fresh then – those conversations, those people. Now they’re different or they’re gone and those moments always feel like something that happened to someone else.
Today I’m on the couch. And my eyes are red from crying. There’s a thing of cup noodles on the table and it’s empty but only because I’m prone to marketing ploys and salty memories. My neck is sore because I fell asleep on the arm of the couch dreaming about walking on the beach on a rainy day. I’m staring at my bookcase. I stack up everything I want to read into a pile. I talk to my friends, but I’m not sure who my friends are. I flip open a book and I read ten pages but reading makes me want to write, so I write. Writing makes me want to read, so I read again.
Tomorrow Tasha and I are going to go shopping. I wish I said things like that more often. Not the Tasha part or the shopping part but the little things. Today I did this and this is how it made me feel. I think sometimes I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing, I’ll forget where I said it, and the wrong person will stumble into it. They’ll pick it up and read it and devour parts of myself I never intended for them to have. That was me, that was mine, you ate it up and spit it out, you didn’t know how much it meant to me. That little thing.