Sometimes I miss my writing. I wonder if I’ll remember anything at all… about what’s going on in my mind lately. My memory is not very reliable. There are many blanks in my past and the only thing that fills them is what I’ve written at the time. Still, what I write is not completely reliable. One thing is talking about what’s going on and another representing the reality of that situation. Memories change with moods. Memories change with aditional information. Memories change too much. In my obsesive quest not to forget, I’ve collected everything from photos to blogs, pieces of paper, stones, boxes, sounds, and the list keeps going. I don’t know what to do with so much ,or how to organize it, or if it’s worth it, or if it helps, or if I’ll even look at it again. But I don’t want to forget anything, and I don’t want to lose perspective of anything at all. And it drives me mad. I want to create a model in time and space of everything and keep it objective and still include feelings and moods. My brain is not good enough for my high aspirations. Nobody’s brain is.
I’m caught in continuous frustration. In thinking that maybe I’d figure something important if I had all the pieces of the puzzle that are floating around me and falling everywhere and getting lost in puddles and crevices. Maybe it’s presumptuous to believe that I hold some sort of key to get something out of it. A breakthrough, an epiphany, a theory of everything.
I don’t want cronicles of facts. I am writing something very abstract and apparently not related to what “happened” (i.e it’s christmas eve, people are sick, I’m reading this or that book, playing this or that game), but somehow this says more, and will say more to my future self who reads it about what I want to know.
Life is too short anyway. Will my future self be in any condition to read this and try to add it to the neverending puzzle game? I don’t mean to get philosophical, but mortality fucking sucks.