Bones

I am a horrid journaler. I always have been. I think up new, inventive ways to journal, in attempts to keep my attention and remind myself of the worth in recorded thought. No sooner have I conceived such ideas than I begin to accept the fruition they'll never see.

I record my thoughts to get them out of my head. All I want, really, is somebody who will take them from me. I don't need to write them down; it's all mercurial and transient and nothing sticks. It sticks to paper and nothing else. As I continue to mull over and evaluate McCandless's proposition that "happiness is only real when shared," I find myself oscillating between the all and nothing approaches. Nothing is real unless shared. Everything is real, even when un-shared. Entire philosophies have been built upon each.

I'm digressing.

I don't want to keep a journal. I want to think my thoughts and lose them as they leave, the same way I lose everything else. They will survive inside of me until I forget them, or inside of those I tell.

Too much of me looks over my shoulder, where I imagine the someone I'd love is waiting for me to turn around.

Why can't they just catch up?

***

I am a linear thinker, but not lately, and it's messing with me. Can you tell? Of course there's worth in recorded thought. To posit anything else meets immediate scrutiny. Something to do with its lack of basis.

What have I been doing here for five years? Recording thought. Its worth spans a vast spectrum, but everything that isn't nothing is something.

Blah blah blah.

This is all aftermath of my sudden suspicion that none of my bones are writer's bones.

True, they're no one's but mine.

But what are they for? If not writing, if not higher learning, if not befriending, if not traveling, if not loving...

Well. They're for some of those things. Must be, if I say so. I am their only judge.

They're for, perhaps, a little bit of everything.