I resume journaling at the end of a relationship. Usually that’s when I realize all that was wrong with the relationship…I can’t help but think that this abandoning of journaling, as soon as I am coupled with a man, is a form of abandoning myself.
To no one’s surprise, my ten-years-ago self continues to wallow in her post-breakup misery, in this latest instalment of my diary entries from back in the day. I’ve turned to religion, as you’ll see. Even made up my own little prayer. On the plus side, this entry contains an exquisite paragraph from one of my …
Once I came near humiliation when I was going to go straight to his house one morning. But I stopped myself in time. I hate the fact that I need to write all this down.
It occurred to me as I re-read yesterday’s entry that my conflict towards my work stems from the fact that I don’t feel that I have a right to express myself.
For every part of me that wants to belong, another part of me wants to remain a nomad.
As a writer, I speak from a place of confusion. I don’t know if this is a good place to speak from. But that is the only place I know, at this point. Utter confusion.
I know what I want to write…but rather than write that, I go to all lengths to write tens of pages of material that is interesting and imaginative but in the end masks the truth.