The Other Diary
2002-09-02 19:16:36 (UTC)


This isn’t what you want.
I hate to start writing with the knowledge and fear that
others will one day hear what I’ve had to say. My opinion
changes from day to day like the ever changing stock
exchange screaming by on the bottom of the screen sometimes
surprisingly low, loaded with cynicism and a devilish way
of making you think you’re bad for having taken the time.
Other times high, full of the optimism that keeps me going -
keeps me writing. Generally I try to keep it right there
in the middle where people can still put up with my
ranting. I’ve fallen in love with a new idea- the idea of
what is supposed to be right. But it’s so hard to explain
its just something I can feel in my fingers tips as they
race across the keyboard in a fury of ideas. My summer was
less than amazing. You’re basic moronic anxiety and
anticipation of a new beginning. Little do I know, little
do I fucking realize that these really are the last
greatest most free days of my life. Soon I’m sure despite
my few short years of rebelling and “deciding” to not
become “one of those people” who drive mini-vans and have
menus on they’re refrigerators of the meal selections
throughout the week, the kind of people who go to work,
shut up, go home, shut up, wake up, shut up, go to work,
shut up. Frustrating. Little do I know that before I know
where I am that’s what I’ll be doing. I’ll be shutting up,
for the good of all around me, for the better good of
myself and my decisions in my life that will effect
everything. I’ll just be shutting up. I just hope, no – I
don’t hope, I more than hope that I’ll find something that
makes me feel like I don’t need to be, I don’t need to shut
up. I don’t need to listen.
I don’t want to bake pies for my neighbors. I don’t want to
feel like I have to bake pies for people I don’t know and
probably don’t like and might eventually end up giving a
witty pet names.
I always want to think or have the belief somewhere in my
mind that rock songs, songs with heart and guts and
feeling, songs that mean something to me, are infact,
written for me. Are infact somehow just waiting to be
discovered by me, waiting to be screamed by me at the top
of my lungs as a I cruise down borad street with my windows
down and the rain spitting in on me. How could I feel like
that if I found my self stumbling into PTA meetings wearing
only the finest L L bean all cotton slacks.
I want to find myself sprawled lazily across blanket
outside a thatched hut somewhere in Tahiti. The crystal-
clear, blue water being the only thing distracting me from
laying in complete comforting shade and blissful ignorance
of my heavily shut eyes. Effortlessly draped in nothing but
a bikini and a sarong, ankles and wrists garnished lavishly
with the finest of the island peoples personal yet
commercially acceptable creations. Worrying about nothing
but myself, my significant other and what I’m going to eat
for dinner.
But that’s just today. Tomorrow I’ll be worrying about
completely different things, manifesting about my day
dreams and of course, writing them down for no one to read.

Ad: 0
Try a new drinks recipe site