today i feel diminished
and
i’m not quite sure about how this writing-stuff-down-malarky feels yet.
reading the bio-scribbles of others often makes me happy, i’m absorbed in their life, filling in versions of their truths with my imagination. frequently i will become so hooked on a stumbled upon author, that i read through their archive to the present, but i cant begin to imagine how that would be for people reading through me.
i’m never certain that i’m able to be honest on the page. i’m too aware of the explicit desire to be read that it expresses, it seems somehow so presumptive and i’m very wary of that.
so for today, i shall write myself in a lower case. it shadows my mood, reflects my uncertainties and better than that, includes my judgements before it gets read. which is really the crux of it all; judging what i’ve done before i’ve done it and claiming it as a result of fear of others judging me.
punishment through typeface choices; at least that’s context.
i am, i think, just a little more frightened of me than i knew before.
how silly.
B:Speed Of Light - Javier Cercas; Fixed Ideas - Joan Didion
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