my words do not have the capacity for what is in my head.

What you're about to read is a mostly-unedited journal entry from October 30, 2017. At this time I was a senior in college. I distinctly remember sitting curled up in the children's literature room at 8 p.m. on a Monday night. My thoughts were running wild, so I simply let my subconscious rule my hand. You'll find that there isn't much connection from one paragraph to the next, but I wasn't trying to be rational here. I was only trying to be honest. Unfiltered.

Something feels wrong today. Something feels very, very wrong. I think -- it is that --

my words

do not have the capacity

for what is in my head.

my imagination

is too big

to fit on these pages.

* * *

I question who I am sometimes. I question if being a writer is fundamental to my being -- if God's made me this way, or if I've made me this way. I wonder if I need to write, or if I just think I need to write. I wonder if I will ever be able to write as well as I can think. My writing -- my journals -- make my thoughts tangible. Physical. All assigned these shapes and symbols and spaces we call language. Maybe this is why I hate journaling -- it never seems to be enough. There are too many thoughts to capture. It's too time consuming. Two pages seem to take two hours. I complain of my thoughts being too big, yet I hate big notebooks because big notebooks have big pages, and big pages are just as daunting as my big thoughts, and can't I think of a better word to use than big?

* * *

Just because I hold the pen -- clicking and unclicking it constantly, scribbling, grouping letters into words and words into sentences -- it doesn't mean I'm in control. All it means is that I want to be. I want God to say yes to all my prayers.

* * *

I haven't been sleeping well for a couple of weeks. I accidentally left my melatonin at home over break, so for hours before I fall asleep my mind reels and unreels with thoughts like these.

* * *

Will I ever stop thinking for long enough to keep the bugs away? I keep getting up in the night, thinking my bed is crawling with bugs, and try to swipe them away. There is always something infiltrating my bed, my safe place.

#journalentry #subconscious #emotions #psychological #psyche #journal #sleep #philosophy #psychodelic