I am enjoying this remarkable novel I’m reading so much that this morning I’m contemplating not finishing its last few remaining chapters, and beginning on page one again. Because I don’t want it to end, but I don’t want to be finished reading it yet, either.
I put whatever has been most frequently left undone at the top of my list and press forward. Lately, it has been completing journal entries. And so, amongst various details, I wrote a paragraph contemplating how I would end the piece. And I liked holding that tension, this unknowing of anticipation, manifesting something more akin to the present but with which the flicker of recognition I controlled, and remembered the days of my childhood that I unknowingly began a quickly abandoned career in fan fiction.
If you plotted the length of my daily journal entries, it would almost always be a pretty clear indicator of my state of mental health and mood. As the entires decrease in length from the median (of about a full page), so inversely increased is the power from which some bothersome challenge I am neglecting to confront, or unwilling to concede.
There is one outlier in that big-data-quantified-self-analysis of my little word counts, like holographic supernovas erasing all traces of information. Occasionally days become so comprehensively rich and full of details worth remembering, that I am overwhelmed in a positive direction but yet still unable write anything down. And then a few days pass, and I think I will recover as much as I can from the drifting plot points, and they fade. Black holes of positive, remarkable days. Unwritten days sorely forgotten.
Because when I trace backward my gaze at a prior self, I always wish I had written more.