fallen there is this empty book
void of all writing
yearning to be filled with thoughts
the pen is lifted
so many words struggle to be released
so many obstacles preventing the pen from meeting the pristine page
tormenting the mind
desiring release
yet paralyzed
unrelenting craving to vent
tools set out, invitingly, tauntingly
nothing spills forth
pilgrim Here lies the journal of the collective imagination. Write here / Right here.
This that and the other.
Red and Blue
They're both for You,
And Me you see.
Just keep them free.
silentbob diary of a madman 010723
soia my favorite ozzy song to play 010724
luck is green more of a notebook 010724
kinkazoid i wish i could have like a diary or a journal but i never have time for her, i always forget to write in her so she misses lots of things and she doesnt have enough space to write everything i want to write, i would bore her anyways 010724
misstree someone to tell everything to, no worries about wording, i'll remember later what i meant, if it matters. now is the important thing, blowing a bubble around a moment so it doesn't get lost in the watercolor wash.
sometimes it even accepts epiphanies, but much more often it smokes cigarettes and bitches about men and women and desire and despair with me.
guitar_freak Whenever I start a new journal i always wonder what will happen to fill the pages. Whenever i finish a journal i am always amazed at how much HAS happened. It constantly is a reminder that life can change so fast and that a blank page needs to be filled and only you can decide how it should be filled. you write your own history 011120
DammitJanet Today has been one of those weird days. I feel down, and then up, then back down, then up again.... I can't seem to get my emotions under control, or even fully decide on what the hell i'm feeling in the first place. I think of life, of the future, of the past, of a specific date and time... It had alot to do with my dreams last night. For some reason all these bad memories from my childhood kept surfacing while i was in the phase of sleep where i'm stuck inbetween it. Things i havent thought of in years but affected me greatly. Maybe my mind is cleansing itself, trying to get me back on track. Getting rid of the pain by actually allowing myself to heal, instead of pushing it to the recesses of my brain, trying to deny it isn't there.

So this morning i awoke a new person, but a confused one. With all these new old memories floating around, dealing with them, one by one, trying to fully let them go. Forgive the anguish and be free. All the while trying to get on with my day as if nothing yet has changed.

This is deffinately the start of something new.
raze i've only ever been able to keep a paper journal if i knew i was going to let go of it and give it to someone else when it was finished. i still haven't figured out why it needs to be set up that way in order to work for me, and why i otherwise end up ripping out the pages i write on because the words don't feel worthy of the books they've tainted.

i can give it away and feel like that's valid and meaningful, even if i'm not likely to get anything in return. but if i try to hold onto it, it feels like the thing has no intrinsic value.

at the same time, whenever i see an interesting composition book, i feel compelled to buy it, knowing i'm probably not going to write anything in it. lyrics and random ideas are reserved for more conventional spiral notebooks. so there are piles of these other books, of all sizes and designs, lined and unlined, some made with recycled paper, some with sewn-in ribbon bookmarks, some very elegant, some very plain, none of them sure what their purpose is. journals that will never be, resting on indifferent shelves.

music has always been my real diary anyway.
what's it to you?
who go