sentimentality

So last night, I decided to start the process of saving all of my 10th-11th grade deadjournal phase entries onto a word doc so nothing gets lost, and future generations can marvel at the emo-ness of it all.

It got me thinking, though, about how often times its only words that survive to define how a person lived his or her life.  Anne Frank’s diary, William Blake’s poems and imagery that we’ve been studying in Brit Lit, even just scrapbooks or journals that are passed on generation to generation.  Then I realized that, if the scope of how I lived my life and who I was, was determined by my writings up until this point, the outcome would fall just a tiny bit short.  It would be one year’s worth of ramblings about a boy who introduced me to the life of an emo, essays ranging from portuguese literature in translation to thematic examinations of conflict solutions in impovershed countries. 

Not to say that those texts don’t have any meaning in my life at all.  The deadjournal at least shows a marked improvement from then, until now, in my use of punctuation and in my decision not to write ‘lol’ after every other sentence.  But what a sad thought that this would be all that is documented of me as a person.

Which is a huge part of the reason I started this whole thing in the first place.  Plus, I’ve created a bit of ambience out of it lately.  Sitting here, under the twinkle lights taped up around the loft, the breakfast at tiffany’s soundtrack playing in the background, a hot cup of sweetmilktea to my right.  My little own haven to write about…whatever I want, really.

So here’s to random thoughts, and noteworthy thoughts, and thoughts that make you think (as any good thought should, really.)

Love.

P.S.  In other news, my brother Jimmy is a fight-ah.  At the age of nine, he went through surgery on his leg like a true champ.  It was delayed five hours, and all he worried about was when he was going to get more jello.  Maybe someday I’ll be as cool as this kid.