Something a little random, as well as, most likely, a repeat on what I’ve spoken about before I wanted to have a moment to talk about the thoughts I have regarding my Memoirs. And I’m not talking the ones that I post on a fortnight. I’m talking, elderly thoughts of the past you haven’t quite forgotten.
This thought came from my father, who was talking to my daughter, when she bragged about getting a diary for her birthday.
He was telling her that when I was her age I would come home from school, go into my room, and write in my own. And that when I was rich and a famous, and the time came around to write my memoirs all I’d have to do is open them up, and walla, a book.
I have two answers to this one.
2) My diaries are rambles of a girl who only thought of one person and the thumbs are bruising my chest. They are secrets both my own and others. They are the illegal, they are the stupid, and they are defiantly not something that ever needs to be seen in daylight.
They are the day, the horrible, and the shit that I never wanted to have to think about ever again.
But mostly, they are about a girl that I wouldn’t want the world to see. Even if I talked about that time in my life, who I was isn’t how I’d like to be remembered.
And I know, it’s the point. You’re telling your life story, but really think about it, these people are writing what they want you to see, and yeah parts of it aren’t going to be sunshine and roses, but I bet most of it, has been hinted or even seen in public before they decided to write about it.
1) I have already started my memoirs, I’m writing them in story form, so I could (you know before this) get away with publishing it without anyone knowing it’s my own life.
I wish it wasn’t but it is…
Besides, why would I want people to notice me when it would only affect all those people when I die?
Seems a little selfish to me.
Maybe that’s why I can’t do it?!
The funny thing is, I’m self-centred. Though later in life I’ll realise what the others are seeing, here, now I can’t see it. I think of other people more than anyone can ever imagine. I think of them all the time. I’m just not good at showing shit. And more so I don’t want to because where it comes from me not wanting people to notice me, it also shows that I don’t want the people that are close to become to close. Because if I piss them off enough, if I keep my arms at length. Well then, it wasn’t much of me they will really miss. Only the thought that I was there, not the company of me being.
It’s an afterthought that has this one too; it’s not something I’m realising for the first time here and now. It’s of growth from what I have become, what I have learnt about myself that makes this work. Makes me understand that it’s what I was doing.
How teenager of me. How stupid of thoughts. Because it wouldn’t have mattered.
I’m telling you it wouldn’t work. They would miss you as if a limb was cut off.
Nothing about you can stop that. Nothing about anything can stop that. Just ‘cause you can’t love them. You can’t stop them from loving you. No matter how much you hurt them. I just wish, now, a present that isn’t here, that I could be sorry for what I have done. That I could apologise. Maybe after this I will be able to.