Thou you wouldn’t know it from reading my writing, I have been writing almost all my life. I have kept random journals since I was very young. In all that time I have barely come to understand proper punctuation or create an effect story telling structure.

I just tend to sit down with little idea what I want to say or how I want it to be said . write one word after another till I just cannot stand it anymore.

I don’t know that anything I ever wrote said anything, spoke to any one, meant anything to anyone , including my self.

Sometimes I just wrote for the satisfaction of hearing the clicking of the keys on my keyboard. Sometimes I had been inspired to create a story. Sometimes I just had to get my pubescent feelings out of my head before they drove me insane.

Sometimes I just saw something in my day to day that interested me and didn’t want it to get lost in the haze of my notoriously spotted memory. Mostly it was just that. I fear of losing those little moments that seemed to fascinate me, but others didn’t seem so into. I wrote them down because they once seemed special and I didn’t want to lose them, lose that moment where something could be special, and lose that part of myself that found things special.

A friend told me I had a habit of reacting excitedly over thing that really weren’t that special. At the moment she said that i felt embarrassed of myself. I felt like I was silly , immature, and had for years made a fool of myself.

I always smile and react to babies and small children, I wanna pet strangers hair when it exceptional nice, I will pet everyone whom passes me dog, I smell things ( not just flowers , food or books( but also the bark of trees or people that interest me) just to better absorb a moment, I like to speak to unique looking people( man whom looks like Mr. T , or subway performers), I get wide eyed when I see someone whom is unusually short or fat, point out object or details of people living spaces and ask them to tell me about there originals.

She made me feel frivolous for doing this. I also felt that falling feeling you get when you realize someone you care about really doesn’t understand you. Doesn’t see the unusually things you do and still care for you without judgement, as a good friend should. I felt that lonely feeling you get when you’re in the room with someone you once shared the best laughs with and now made you fall silent and unsure of yourself.

I guess that’s why I write. Paper can’t do that to you. It’s a dialog with your self, your inner self the one that bares no need for explanation. I write so I can sleep at night, so I can care for my friends with judgment, so I can still find joy in the everyday, so I can be open to the world, to love, to creativity, to stories of the past and possibilities of the future.

I may find everyday things of interest for longer then the usual person, I may stop and photography cracks in the street or ceiling tiles because I like how they resemble the way rivers look on maps or the way buildings look from above , I may smell other peoples coffee or wine, I may ask stranger why their shoes are so cracked hoping to hear their life stories, but in my journals this is all expectable. Even necessary. Perhaps only in journals am I expectable as I am.