I don't mean to sound like another Miriam Leivers, but I want to feel. I want to feel how it feels through your skin, through your brain, with your feelings. And I know 99.99999 percent of everything that has ever happened has happened to someone who isn't you, who isn't me and who is centuries dead. Yet, I am self-centered, I am stupid, I am smug, I can only analyze my patterns of thought using my patterns of thought. I am a Turing machine, fed a program that is symbiotically equal to the description of myself processing myself. It always comes back around to me, me, me. Me.
Although each thought that gestates in our minds might have been conceived with uniqueness, with altruism, with kindness... its birth in the world, through our mouth or our hands, is bloodied and bruised with ego, with conceit. Every scene that springs from a ripe writer's mind is pushed through a solipsistic, five-sense filter. But I guess the bargain between the writer and the reader is this: although everything written by the writer risks being a horrible hubris, in concession the writer at least will be interesting, engaging, palpable and persuasive. Otherwise, the writer will not be read and the words that he/she has poured out will be orphaned.
And, having said that, let me just say that sometimes you just don't want to know what people really think about you. It hurts. It bruises your soul. Maybe more than once I have had the feeling that my journal could be more discreet, more discerning. Perhaps I should gingerly tiptoe over how I really feel, and while recounting the meaningless moments of my life, slap slabs of cool detachment all over it. I can't langourously, linearly list the bullshit in my life like it matters. As if in the future someone will really give a fuck about whether I had eggs or pancakes for breakfast, when I drank coffee, what I watched on T.V. and I'm tired of justifying myself. This stuff is scraped off from the inside of my brain. This is me. This is how I feel. That's all.