I never like to write on the left side.
I can barely read my handwriting.
You shouldn’t write in what looks like a journal in a public place,
You just end up looking lonely.
I forgot my age yesterday, strange, I don’t feel 20.
Gotta come up with a way to remember the important things.
I want to remember, honest.
I confess, I’m an abuser of notebooks, written in for a week or two and then discarded.
I rip out pages every 2 or 3 days because they don’t make sense, or I want to start over.
As if ripping out these pages gives me a clean slate, scratch that, a clean sheet of paper to write on.
I need to forget.
I’ve had this notebook since Christmas though, it’s been four months.
I think I get it now. Every journal entry from before, every story or book attempt never stood a chance.
Retention: that’s not how I tick.
I’m jumbled up letters in Scramble.
A novelist draft, crunched up in paper balls by the waste basket.
Sporadic IMBD quotes and YouTube comments.
Brevity is the key, memory is the curse.
I got this notebook for my birthday, did I tell you?