writing

As I sit in an overcrowded coffee shop waiting for a friend (to go to another coffee shop...), I spent a bit of time reading some old blog posts from last January. It is a good thing I don't hate myself after that, right? I remember finding my journal from middle school when I was sixteen and being absolutely horrified with what I had written. Oh. My. How could I have been so utterly ridiculous?

Now, Facebook has the Timeline feature, so I meandered in 2008 for a few minutes and almost had a heart attack at the things I was writing. Completely consumed with myself, it appears. Totally infatuated with a boy, and apparently with smiley faces. My "status updates" were usually pop song lyrics. What I have gained from this pathetic realization, at least, is to sympathize with anyone under the age of twenty on Facebook. Post your pictures, write your hearts out, and I will refrain from any judgment. Sheesh.

Though both in my private journals and notebooks and social outlets I have clearly expressed myself foolishly and with pain I look back on these musings, I will continue to write - one does get better with practice. In twenty more years I will look back on my memoirs I work on, and laugh, but also have something of worth, words that gushed from my heart and soul, words I meant and felt were important once upon a time. With much editing, revision and wisdom, they might even be reworked into something worth publishing someday. We'll see.

Writing makes me happy, writing is probably the most natural thing I do. That and talking with people about their problems and mine. And sleeping, I do that pretty well, too. Actually I'm a wonderful sleeper, I always have been.