For anyone who knows me personally, my constant need to document my life is apparent. However, today, as I sat in my senior seminar class, I pondered on my love of writing narrative. Not just day-to-day musings, but the nitty gritty parts of my observations which I normally leave out. The things that I make note of in my mind, like the single brown hair that was irritating me on the conference table, curling ominously, the root pearl-like and grossly annoying; things like that I can't keep leaving out of my day and forgetting just because of their supposed insignifigance.
I always look at narrative as a chore. It is like having to do the dishes by hand after dinner time. If not done on a regular basis, the food dries on the dishes, making the chore harder, the food more stubborn to scrape off. After a few days, festering in soapy grey greasy dishwater with the spaghetti sauce grease floating in bubbly disks on top, it's just not something that I want to do. There are so many people I want to write about. Just regular people. But out of laziness and lack of initiative, I just don't do it. I become infatuated with people all the time, like a fifteen minute crush because they have interesting hair, or they have a neat dog, or they look at the ground in an inquisitive way that makes me speculate their lives. Then they disappear forever. I used to be in the habit of carrying a "spy journal" to write about the people who I did not want to forget. It isn't just the people either, but the surroundings and the situations that we share as I spy on them without their knowing. I don't usually get caught.
This narrative journal is mine, however. It's this thing I own because my mind won't shut the fuck up. But it's like plaque build-up, and it's time for the dentist. So whoever reads it, if anyone, don't be offended. Really.