Wednesday, July 8, 2009


Today I decided that I was going to carry a moleskine around with me everywhere I go. For a lot of reasons, one because they make you look sophisticated, two because they're the coolest notebooks to write in on account of them absorbing fountain pen ink like immediately after it's written (seriously, test it, I get distracted sometimes when I'm writing because of the constantly changing shade of ink) and last of all because I always have strange and sometimes profound thoughts that I lose in a matter of moments.

When I look through the blank pages I immediately wish I could draw a little bit better, just to better portray the image in my head. Sometimes the words aren't enough and you truly need that image there, so maybe instead I'll start taking my dinky little digital camera around and sticking significant images in. Quite frankly I'll look like some sort of stalker with the photos I'll be taking, but with consensus from the person whom will be presented, I might actually give of a better impression. In the end though, it would give me more satisfaction if I could jot down a quick sketch of exactly what it is I'm seeing, distorted by my mind's eye. Sometimes what we see exactly through our eyes isn't exactly what is being portrayed through our head.

What I'll be writing will generally be a play on semantics. Taking the things I say and playing word games with them. Simple situations, taken and made deities to me. Put on a pedestal to be inspected and commented upon. I feel like it might actually make life less interesting sometimes, if I take every possible situation and pick it apart in my little moleskine, but at the same time, I'll enjoy ever dot of ink I spill onto those pages. It'll be my own small philosophy on the pages of a book. Something some one some day might actually read and enjoy, and if not enjoy, dissect themselves, the way I once dissected things.

I suppose this whole writing thing will build on my hamartia of trying to see things for so much more than they are, and having unnecessary compassion, however, something inside me still churns and aches for me to do it anyway. It's like a primal instinct that has been instilled in me the way that lust is instilled in most, I just don't want to forget all the things I'm seeing thinking dissecting anyway.

Someday I'll never remember any of this, and I hope that I can gain back at least an ounce of it through my scrawled writing in a little moleskine.

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