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Memoir

sephreniax2

New member
Joined
Nov 7, 2008
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Hey guys, I haven't posted in awhile...so here's a short bit of what I wrote this past semester. Writing...is something so personal to me. It was definitely hard to expose myself in this way...which is why I wanted to share it. I hope everyone enjoys.

The keys click on. One hundred words per minute? Maybe. But the more and more I write, the less and less I feel. Or maybe it is the opposite. I continue on, the words slowly bursting to life across the screen, left to right – and all of sudden, stop. I have nothing left to say. “I’m not lost…” but my thoughts are alone. There is no singular more poignant or lonely. We search and we look everywhere for connections, places and people to outsource ourselves to. Ways to contrive ourselves from others because they possess what we do not have. Yet in the end, there is no one will share the same solitude within the sea of the mind; my thoughts are alone “…just wondering.”​
I force myself to focus on the task at hand, my mind stretching further and further. The spotlight searches my entire being for something to display, something to show and something to tell. Something contrived. I typed in this pseudo tangent and pursued it with equally sordid fervor, each word falling like a ton of bricks. As I rewound and read over the fallacies of my limited imagination, each word fed the fire of my frustration. I hated it. I hated reliving every shit ass moment – everything where my truth came from. Writing is not catharsis. There is no release, just a cyclical reliving of the aggravating moments, a time trap. And perhaps this is the nature of happiness and loneliness entwined. We will always be caught, always be torn by this emotion of happiness. But we will pursue it nonetheless trying to alleviate ourselves from an ailment we didn’t even know we had. But in the end loneliness will return, and the eternal private quiet of the soul.​

I stopped typing. I could sit here and recount my entire life to you, line-by-line, word by word in detail. Except that a life ended on April 3rd, 1989. Death did not bring the peace that I thought it would. Instead I ended up here, split between the memories I carried with me and the ones that I had left behind. And I was trapped, trapped collecting all my memories so I could tell somebody about them. Anybody. Anyone. It’s amazing what we will do to feel heard – to feel like somebody cares. In a way, we are all junkies. Not the ones’ that snort cocaine, shoot up heroine, or hop on the E train. We are addicted to the static. The desire to know and connect and to feel and be felt everywhere around the world. We are starving to be seen, addicted to contact with everything. This is why we sit and waste away the hours of the day in front of the static. The world is much smaller in the screen.​
 
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