Work Text:
i find writing hard in a way.
i don’t like proofreading
it feels like listening back on a recording.
i only glance over the words for spelling errors (and thanks to modern technology spell checking has become much easier)
i suppose my writing style could be described as “train of thought”
i like it better that way. it feels more personal.
i have trouble reading most books or fanfictions.
it’s not that they’re not good, i’m sure. it just feels so... foreign, i guess. i feel like i’m invading something. it feels... stiff. unnatural.
see, even reading this back feels off. so strange.
i like reading scientific papers. philosophy papers made by old guys a long time ago is also fun.
it feels a lot more grounded than unfamiliar literature. i don’t like the unfamiliar. it feels cold, harsh. i can’t trust it. that’s why i like science papers and metaphors. it’s all stuff based on things i know, it’s definite. i know what to think.
i also like metaphors and such. not the soft vague ones, the ones that can be used for anything. i mean like that time i told my therapist i was an onion and society was onion soup. it didn’t make sense but i made it make sense and it made sense because everyone knows what onion soup is. it’s not cold and harsh, it’s warm and familiar. it fills up your stomach and makes you feel happy, like a child, without thinking about harsh things and being super short and fogginess when one looks back.
i can’t remember the specific timeline of my childhood. I know the basics with context clues, but it’s more like small scenes and feelings than like a movie.
some things i didn’t like back then i look back with some sort of vague appreciation. even the horrible parts. even the parts filled with grief and regret and hatred.
who are we? like, at our core. are we are memories? what happens if we lose them. if i can’t remember my childhood, was that me?
i think there’s no real answer to that question. after all, this isn’t a science paper, if anything it’s akin to one of those vague philosophers essay but combined with the diary of a sad middle class woman.
i’m not a woman. i can’t see myself as one. i wonder if that’s due to my queerness or my inability to let go of my childhood.
adolescent years are strange indeed, but not for the reasons i thought it would be. a lot less dramatic adventures and much more solitary pondering (and therapy). it’s like i’ve finally gained consciousness to the point i understand things. but i have no power to change them and not enough experience to know how to cope or get used to it.
i feel a million years old and a child at the same time. i’m so far from childhood but i have so long to go.
i wouldn’t say i’m scared. fear is not a feeling i have towards my future.
if anything, i would describe it as sadness. there is so much i don’t know and so much i want and so much i need to do. it’s all very confusing. i hope i one day figure it out enough.