Well it's only been 3 days, but hey. I promised to write in you every day, but for now, is every weekday fine for you? Some people have dogs, some people have soulmates, some have relatives. Some don't need it. But some, like me have journal. You're my first/last resort I guess. The only place where I can be myself. You're my imaginary friend that has a tangible real life extension. You're the reservoir of all that, in my mind, is real. You're the lucid day dream that helps me organize my conscious brain; just like night dreams organize the subconscious. Is it because you don't judge me? Maybe not; you're an extension of my own mind, and I'm extremely judgmental of myself. But the difference maybe, is that I know that you only reflect my own judgments without proactively providing me any of your own. You're the intellectual version of me asking a flat mirror how I look.
You can tell I love you from the way I treat you just like my loved ones. There are days when I'm completely dependent on you. There are weeks when everyday I'm craving some moments with you. Then there are times where for many straight days I tend to just forget your existence (or so it seems) till I see your face again and feel so guilty for not paying attention before. You can tell I love you from the way I keep fidgeting with your customization settings so that I comfortably cocoon inside your warm personalization.
Yet every day, unlike the cliche, I struggle to tell you something. I always know I want to tell you something, I just am constantly unsure what, how, when, where to tell you. All the choices of words, of labels, of categories, of associated feelings, of timing and so on, confuse me. It's the paradox of choice. I choose to admonish myself, to carry my introspection, down all the various avenues. And suddenly, I'm so lost in creating the story that I forget the beginning and the end. I end up telling you something from the surface, rather than being honest with you, completely, like I should. I end up being dishonest with me.
I'm not making any promises. I have only casual intentions. I know recursion is key. I know every single broad and narrow aspect of personal improvement. You're not my avenue towards the goal. For now, you are the goal. For to find the world, one must first find oneself.
You can tell I love you from the way I treat you just like my loved ones. There are days when I'm completely dependent on you. There are weeks when everyday I'm craving some moments with you. Then there are times where for many straight days I tend to just forget your existence (or so it seems) till I see your face again and feel so guilty for not paying attention before. You can tell I love you from the way I keep fidgeting with your customization settings so that I comfortably cocoon inside your warm personalization.
Yet every day, unlike the cliche, I struggle to tell you something. I always know I want to tell you something, I just am constantly unsure what, how, when, where to tell you. All the choices of words, of labels, of categories, of associated feelings, of timing and so on, confuse me. It's the paradox of choice. I choose to admonish myself, to carry my introspection, down all the various avenues. And suddenly, I'm so lost in creating the story that I forget the beginning and the end. I end up telling you something from the surface, rather than being honest with you, completely, like I should. I end up being dishonest with me.
I'm not making any promises. I have only casual intentions. I know recursion is key. I know every single broad and narrow aspect of personal improvement. You're not my avenue towards the goal. For now, you are the goal. For to find the world, one must first find oneself.
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