April Littrell
25
I find it difficult to sit down and write if I expect too much from myself. Long writing doesn’t constitute good writing. And personal writing needn’t be good nor long, it just must be. It feels lazy to fall into stream of consciousness—if I’m going to do this, might as well not write at all. Save someone the trouble of reading someone else’s thoughts when their own head is clogged full. Then you step back and consider who you’re writing for. And if it’s anyone other than yourself, it’s not personal and might as well meld with your day job.
You never really write for yourself. Even writing that never leaves the confines of your local data storage: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. It’s not for you—you’re your own audience in that case, trying to write for an older, wiser self that will approach prior thoughts with a dismissive naivety filter. It’s easy to write off what was once written as a snake skin.
Today I turned 25. Told myself I’d do a writeup. Get introspective so I may look back in 25 years and see where my head was at. The day somewhat escaped me. Didn’t have as much time as I’d have liked for writing. Always the case, ain’t it? Relaxing nonetheless. Owe it to you to dig deep before the year’s up. Here’s a promise to publish words more coherent than these.
Not sure who gets to reading these posts. Hello, stranger. I’m not in the mood to continue on tonight in this text document. Mind’s on testing this computer mouse my brother got me, what I need to get done tomorrow work-wise before the holiday break, and whether I made the most of this most awkward machination of one’s own day. Shouldn’t pay mind to the last one—it’s a paradox. If you have to question whether you made the most of something, you almost certainly did not. Yet I’m set to squeeze the entire lemon without a taste test. Paid for it, might as well extract the entire volume of fluid even if half as much would make the meal just as well. Maybe it’s a mentality of saving for later. Being thrifty.
It was a good day. In good health. In contact with my love. In warmth—for a moment, my face was enveloped in sun. In contentedness with material belongings and equal acknowledgment of so few longings. In humility to share such thoughts and in hope the shell will further shed.