I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I love to write.

This morning, I’m sorting through some boxes, trying to consolidate my things, creating space.

I found a couple of notebooks, and I can’t help but leaf through them. It’s random excerpt sharing time! Most of these are not dated, and if they’re about someone, I don’t remember who. I can’t tell if some of these are fiction. 

This particular notebook is mostly from 2004. Five years ago already.

How do I know if she’s still my friend? that she still likes me? How does she know I won’t abandon her? It sure does feel like I’m not as important to her as I thought I was. It is so frustrating sometimes. Is she still guarding herself? Does she not trust me anymore? I said I was sorry. I have not had a chance to show her I won’t mess up again. She doesn’t want to take that chance with me. I don’t know any of these things, these are just feelings, hunches – what my nervous stomach is telling me. I just don’t know what is true with her anymore.

Oh. Here’s a dated one:
January 2, 2004
I’m supposed to write. I’m supposed to teach through writing, if all I do is provoke thought and reflection. If I do this correctly, my words, which really aren’t my words, will go a long, long way.

Undated. Most likely a Sunday.
The babies were all tuned to the same frequency today. It was uncanny how they were quiet at the same time, laughing at the same time, crying at the same time, screaming AT THE SAME TIME.

On the same page:
It’s interesting to feel so isolated sitting in a subway car full of people and yet feel very contented sitting by yourself, surrounded by no one, just you and the solid ground beneath you.

On the same page:
I stared at my computer screen and read over the beginnings of 5 short stories. They didn’t have endings. They didn’t have middles. Just little stem cells of stories. I abandoned them, neglected them. They are so far and long removed from my mind.

(Turning the page …)

I barely recognized them, much less recall their potential as (fully developed) mature stories. Should I throw them away? Should I keep them hoping I can remember the characters and plots? Could I keep them in case the stories decide to tell themselves differently? … Sigh. I’ll keep them and see what generates.

A separate thought:
It is possible to be inspired and not motivated or not have the desire. I still find it difficult to focus. My brain can’t sit on any one idea for any length of time. I need to go back to writing more regularly.

Another thought:
I love it when the subway car is virtually empty and the train stops and one other person gets on, seeing that he/she has the entire car of seats to choose from. He/she ends up plopping down two seats away. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to have him/her sit RIGHT NEXT TO ME. Why? Why can two air molecules evenly space themselves and not two human beings? strangers? Shouldn’t they have an innate awareness of natural law? What about personal space and comfort zones and safety and hygiene? Do these barriers only exist in my mind? If so, then why can’t other people follow my rules? Hmm? Veddy veddy interesting.

Last one for today:
July 15, 2004
All I can do is sit here and smile.
My heart’s about to burst.
A smile can’t even just sit still on my face.
Even my smile wants to dance.
I sit here, seemingly calm
while my face fights to keep this smile from dancing.