"So afraid of what people might say"
Haven't properly been on a computer for a week, so when I checked dj, I clicked the links to the right and visited bash. Came back and thought "I haven't looked at my da account in a long time" -- I don't log on. Just skim through my own things once in a very very great while. And then I decided to check on a name I remembered from that era. A woman I never knew but who had a strength in her voice that reminds me of my voice now when it's strong enough--we both write like men. But she's gone. Left apparently. And it's funny because the only thing of mine she ever commented on was my goodbye to writing. So I reread the only piece that connected two complete strangers.

And at the end of that dear john I expressed a wish to learn to write without losing myself. And now I question whether I've been successful in my endeavor. Sure, I'm not the way I was then... I don't do the drink, smoke, sleep, write--no time for showers or love or life. Occasionally crave the life of a literary lion, but not to the point of complete self-destruction (and that's the gear I was stalling in at that time in my life).
And then I wonder how my writing has changed. Most of the stuff on my da account is really naive and not good--you can kind of get a feeling of little sparks that would later become the fire burning beneath my words, but the cadence is off a lot of the time. Strength lost in a messy rhythm and an ignorance born of stubborn mind.
But am I any less stubborn now?
John would definitely disagree.
I'd agree with John. (Irony?)

Checking da, like reading old journal entries, is an experiment in growing up. It's a comparison test to see how I've changed. Standing against a wall and looking for the last pencil mark to prove how much I've changed. Unfortunately for me, for any person I guess, the marks are all faded and smudged and I can't tell if I've grown up or just merely grown away.

I like to think that these days, the days when the writing is good, the voice is strong, and the heart feels that pitch of inspiration that lets words go instead of choking them down, I like to think that these days my voice mirrors that of the strong woman I remember not knowing on da. The one who wasn't afraid to write like a man. That I could earn a mutual appreciation in return.

But what does it mean that she's abandoned it now too?
Failure inevitable proven? Rimbaud's end?

Or is it caught up in that clique mentality that ensures I may long for literary community but will never step foot in a place like that again?
(And then the honesty in me pushes out the confession that, like a 14 year old girl, I really DO want to be part of the in crowd.. Always have and always will)

Sometimes it's easier to measure the progress of my life by examining the progress of my writing. Maturity measured in the ability to construct sexy sounding sentences that have nothing to do with romance or fucking.

But why is it I've been writing all this time anyway? (John's question never asked?)

If no one ever reads it, what purpose does it serve beyond creative masturbation?

Who am I trying to prove something to?
Why do I assume I'm trying to prove anything to anyone?

Someone else's assumptions floating around in my mind? Falling out of my mouth via nervously typing fingertips?

And what of the wish deep inside of me to copy and paste this dj into my more frequently viewed journal? The one that all the strangers view? Vanity revealed?

All the talk of writing, of the man's voice in the woman's body, of the sexy sounding sentences--it makes me want a cigarette. But new resolutions have us turn away from self-destruction no matter how good it tastes on the edge of my lip.

Long for a new distraction because this is turning obsession again.
And maybe I've just answered that initial question. Maybe it'll never be possible to love writing and love myself in a healthy way. Maybe it'll always turn me toward self-destruct no matter how subtle or how piss poor the attempt.

But it's like a Fall Out Boy lyric: "I only keep myself this sick in the head cause I know how the words get you."

The truth that lingers beneath the words of a little boy band keep me feeling kindred. Familial familiarity.

But we won't even start on my latest feelings regarding procreation.
We'll cut the song short here and seek out less demanding distractions.