split

I will be in a much better mood if I can just accomplish one thing. But today has been a day full of ghosts that appear and lead me down dead ends. I'm tired of never arriving and having to turn around and backtrack. I am tired of being seduced by spirits, by the intangible and abstract. I constantly miss something I never had.

And I've been writing again, by hand, in a journal. I can't tell you exactly what it is that I've been writing because I don't remember. It is all so disjointed. A few sentences about my father making Jell-o and then suddenly I'm describing how I wash dishes and what my thoughts are on god. This is normal, though, right? A personal journal is nothing if not a record of one's stream of consciousness. But it still bothers me. But I still crave a structure. I don't always want to live in first person. I want to step outside.

There is more to say about all of this, maybe. This feels incomplete. I've just been whiny and too reliant on contractions. I mightn't couldn't shouldn't wouldn't publish this, but I will will will. I will click "publish" and be accomplished and eager to scratch this off my list.

And she went outside and looked up and her words evaporated into the sky.