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.
and
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.
Depressive
Survival
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.
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