Might As Well Face It I'm Addicted to....
Bukowski would probably punch me in the face, Kerouac would probably hug me, I have either a blessing or a problem. I have an addiction. "Hello I'm Bret and I'm addicted to wanting to write stuff." Yesterday I went to the lake and all I wanted to do was remember every emotion and observation. I didn't have a pen and I was all kinds of angry, because I knew I wouldn't remember all of it. I saw so many things yesterday and had so many small epiphanies about life. I'm so upset that I got home and all I could remember were the physical things that happened or what I saw. I guess that means that my conviction in the original thought wasn't all that good. But, at the time it felt revelational, it felt like I really stumbled upon something, but then when taken out of the context, nothing. I just want those memories to stick but I don't want to live for the experience. I don't want to take pens and paper around looking for the emotion. Because, then it won't be natural it may be forced and at worst concocted. I don't want anything I ever write about to be only experienced because I want to write about it. Writing is a run-off, a terciary thing that happens because of life. I'm not a journalist. I'm not some sort of wildlife photographers. I'm a person who likes to live and has of late retrained my brain to be able to write it down. or at least want to write it down later. I look back on this journal and find it immense, slightly hollow, self-serving, but immense and strangely vivid. I'm proud of it, but find that it is starting to run my life in a weird way. But, it's such a good way that I don't wantit to stop at all. I want to keep writing and remembering but I don't want to sacrficie anything other than time for it's purpose. I don't want to do things simply to write.
