purplesmile's Diaryland
Diary
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i didn't proofread this even a little
Songs get stuck, swirling. The words churning memories faster than I can piece them up chronologically. Without a moment’s hesitation, though, names, situations, pictures collage themselves across my brain, and I consider how little I write anymore. Emails to students, love-haikus at dinner, notes in the margins of text books, reflections for class. Nothing. Where. I. Can. Hear. My. Voice.
My fingers are sore my voice is too. I shake my head at myself: Ani DiFranco. Always the one to make me think, to take me back to my contemplative adolescence, so much of which is scribed here, on the internet, for the world to see, if the world cared to see it.
A single click of the right arrow in my iTunes, and the treasures you’d find are probably worthless to you.
He reaches through the cobwebs as he turned on the light. Carved my name into his leather seats. New York, New York is dangerous. Never really knew that she could dance like this. I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow I still lived on. I want a girl with shoes that cut and eyes that burn like cigarettes. Souvenirs of men who cheat. Let me go on. She waits for me in silence.
I wonder how we get to be who we are. I wonder if we are our experiences, or, if we choose to, we’re something else. Memes and quizzes are just easier. Answer questions, and there you have it. Who needs to contemplate in the world of T9 even though I don’t really know what that means. I know it has to do with how we abbreviate everything, boil it down to its thick, syrupy essence with no prose that wastes words wastes letters wastes my valuable time.
I’ve fallen in love with pesto, balsamic vinegar, too. I put them on everything, and it makes it fresh and sweet, leaving a trace of tang on my tongue that makes me wonder what it was, again, that I was eating?
3:51 p.m. - March 14, 2008
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