Hi,
Here I am sharing a series of sporadic journal type entries. They grouped together in a way I didn’t expect them to, all following a similar narrative. As most of my writing lately, the style is very detached.
Thank you and bear with me.
Tuesday June 27th 9:45 am
I wonder what things are like in Paris, in Tokyo, in Lisbon.
I wonder what things are like at home.
In the East Village
On 15th street.
I wonder what things are like in my brain.
Am I creating a good home for her?
I wonder what things are like in the middle of the ocean, in the Swiss alps
In my stomach
Around the corner
Across the pacific
I wonder what it's like in your brain
Under the guise of reason
In my poet’s relevance
What voice am I creating
One of a struggling young woman
That of an aspiring theorist
In my brain things look different
Travelers passing through would admire the decor
I try
I’m trying
In my confusion I am here
Lets come up with a short story
The death is in the details
It tasted like rejuvenation.
I felt powerful. Headphones in, a beat that moved me forward, in my mode I was unstoppable. Strutting down 13th street in the East Village I felt at peace. Dressed in my corduroy emerald blazer, gems on my temples, and my vintage forest green briefcase in hand, I …
The wind blowing my hair behind my shoulder, accentuating my collar bone. My earrings hit my neck as I shift my weight. Weaving in and out of the crowds, I was a sight to be seen. I strut forward, unbothered by what lies in the steps behind me. In my momentum I am generating energy— validating my existence, energizing my soul. It felt like someone had just plugged me into an outlet.
I don’t think there has been any other moment in my life that I felt that powerful, that connected, that at home.
The mix of past and present tense. This moment, repeated daily, this ritual, this 20 minute occurrence on my walk to class, my internship, out clubbing, it fueled my soul.
I can still feel my heels hitting the pavement. When I hear a beat that brings me back to this moment, I dance, I smile, I drift away.
I can’t think of anything that fills me up as much as this moment does. Engraved in my brain, it is a moment that I itch to return to. I could cry. It feels so powerful.
Sunday July 18th 3:14 pm
The clock never stops ticking.
I feel like I can never get a grip, as I have said before one step forward, one step back,
In love but not in the right moment. Together but not in the right context.
Ready but not moving.
I had an idea to write about yesterday but I don’t remember it.
Its a no from me. I don’t know. It’s all one big question mark. I continue questioning. Why. Why. Why.
My phone is so fucking dumb its absolutely insane.
I am struggling. Anxious in my heart for the first time in a long time.
I am in love in a love that is uncertain. Is love ever as certain as I imagine it to be?
Sunday October 17th 9:08 am
The way time passes leaves a strange pit in my stomach.
I am never in control, while striving to remain in complete control.
A backseat driver to my own life, maybe I set the destination, gave the driver the route but accidents happen, wrong turns, construction detours.
In my home I sit, I created her with my own hands. Molded her mind into a safe space for my energy to dwell.
Why long when longing hurts more than the actual pain of ending does.
The prolonged thought of what could be, my heart asking, screaming, begging to be held.
I ask for more, the parameters of what can be given don’t communicate to my brain, only the possibility or the past. What was, what things could be.
I dream, I always have. I request. Asking my higher self to guide me.
Wishing on every eyelash, picking up lucky pennies.
Collecting every piece of found love that I can find. Romanticizing my existence. Thanking myself for making it this far, scrutinizing my missteps.
I hold onto the image of a girl I once knew, forever uncomfortable with change while always looking for the next.
I read my story like it is written in the stars, destined. Different.
I view myself above others, a plague of the human condition.
I don’t read really, but I write. Always in the same detached syntax.
Half on the page, half stuck in my mind.
I run laps around my brain, a mini me begging to lower the speed on the treadmill.
She can’t handle it, can i?
I feel most at peace in my past. In what I know is possible.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I am trying to be more honest with myself. When I put my thoughts on the page, it sounds like the same tired narrative I was writing about in June. Things are so different now. I am.
Wednesday November 3rd 11:52 am
Am I?
How does one evolve their own writing style, actively choosing to do things differently. The way I used to write sounded earnest, educated, but childish. It feels like I am always pleading, convincing, trying to make someone understand a concept so foreign that the words on the page only allude to it.
I'm stuck in so much parallel structure.
I love a mind fuck, something that twists and turns and leaves you on the edge of your seat. Revelation after revelation. I read it in my brain like spoken word. Like I’m screaming into the ether.
I sit now in a home that I haven’t built. In one I only dwell for periods of time. Transient in mind and body.
I dreamt of the past last night, of events that didn’t happen, of a reality I am afraid of. I dreamt of change, of my final days of a past life.
I dream of possibilities I have only imagined, never executed. Of things that are possible but in what reality.
Honestly, I have felt really lost. I have felt regret and fear and longing. I have had to convince those around me that I understand my path, that I will be fine, that the future's mine to build. All of these lies are true if you believe them.
I question what I want for myself.
Juxtaposed to all of this, I am certain that my life will be beautiful. That it will be full of every possibility I have ever imagined. I am certain of this because I would never let myself have otherwise. Maybe I am in limbo right now but why would I stay here when I want so much more, when I know I am capable of so much more.
My internal dialogue, filled with so much self doubt and a soaring ego.
I question, as I have.
I exist in this weird detached syntax.
Can I get to the fucking point? No. Because I have no idea what the point is.
Mindless self expression. A soliloquy.
That’s it.
Again, I appreciate your willingness to view my odd creative process.
Let me know if your thoughts match mine.
With love,
isabelle
Love reading your work, makes me feel close to you❤️
Always astounded by your thoughts and writing. It is and you are so beautiful.