I didn't bring my iTouch with me, so I have this hour-plus to write and eat pistachios instead of browsing Tumblr like I usually do. As it turns out, I have a lot to say. There's a bit of vibration in me, like I'm on the edge of mania. Shaking a little. That too-much-caffeine feeling. But I only had one cup of tea this morning?
Journaling is probably good for me. Stuck thoughts come un-stopped and get put down in raw, garbled form. I can use them later if I want to. I might want to. I'm putting down whatever comes, hoping I'm right to trust my intuition. Hoping to provoke catharsis.
I keep thinking of Sylvia Plath, of her beautiful journals, perfectly eloquent dashed-off observations that are more interesting than most novels. I'm interested in her the way I'm interested in myself, in a way that absorbs and inures me.
I don't want to chide myself for being a narcissist. It's the human creature's natural state and there's nothing wrong with it. If I weren't invested in my success and survival (or lack thereof) then I wouldn't exist. I obsess over myself, therefore I am. Self-reflection is supposed to be good, right?
[Written around 12:15pm, 9/17/2013, in between classes. Excerpt from a longer entry. Lightly edited.]
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