February 7th, 2002

butterfly girl : where she goes when she

days off

I spent the day watching dance & music themed videos, such as "Centre Stage", "Save the Last Dance", and "Josie and the Pussycats", and writing letters to penpals who have probably thought I've neglected them. It was relaxing, and just what I needed. Only it's made me want to dance again, really dance. I'm looking for adult ballet classes to start; I wanted to do these last year as well, only I didn't have the time, nor the money. This year is different. Being at uni for only 1 subject, and working a lot more means I can actually do some of this stuff. Ballet lessons and singing lessons would be great, but I have to make sure I don't overload. I'm still at uni, if only fo 1 subject, and with work, Lifeline, and soon, netball with the Rebel girls, it's going to be pretty busy.

And I haven't even begun to talk about drama yet, and rehearsals etc. Yikes. Maybe I'm a little busier than I thought I would be. Oh well. You only live once. I keep saying that I'll learn these new things, so it's time it happened.

Gayle and I were going to go surfing tomorrow, but due to the not-so-summer weather we've been having, it's been postponed until such a day where the sun is actually shining. So this means another day to do anything [nothing?] with, and I'm rather looking forward to it. 2 days off in a row - this almost constitutes a weekend! And with annual leave week next week [8 days off!], it's all looking rather sweet.

butterfly girl : where she goes when she

keeping a record

I remember nights where I would stay up late, room lit only by my bedside lamp, writing in my journal filled with black pages with metallic gelpens that lit up the page and made what I wrote seem all the more special. Fanciful, I know, but I had some poetic notion of being a writer, as though words could truly express how I feel. But I'm beginning to realise that that's not always the case. And in a world where words have been my everything, it's difficult to accept those situation in which even the most eloquent of phrases is not enough to describe an experience, an expectation.

So that's why I haven't been writing as much these days. I know someday, I'll look back and regret not keeping a better record of my life as it is, but words that are forced are better off unwritten. I don't know why it's so hard to write anything down these days, but whatever it is, I don't like it. I'm inspired by other people's poetry, yet it's not quite enough to write my own. I know that in reality, experience is the only inspiration that can create something real, but motivation is another powerful driving force.

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I remember nights where I would stay up late, room lit only by my bedside lamp, writing in my journal filled with black pages with metallic gelpens that lit up the page and made what I wrote seem all the more special. Fanciful, I know, but I had some poetic notion of being a writer, as though words could truly express how I feel. But I'm beginning to realise that that's not always the case. And in a world where words have been my everything, it's difficult to accept those situation in which even the most eloquent of phrases is not enough to describe an experience, an expectation.

So that's why I haven't been writing as much these days. I know someday, I'll look back and regret not keeping a better record of my life as it is, but words that are forced are better off unwritten. I don't know why it's so hard to write anything down these days, but whatever it is, I don't like it. I'm inspired by other people's poetry, yet it's not quite enough to write my own. I know that in reality, experience is the only inspiration that can create something <i>real</i>, but motivation is another powerful driving force.

<And in saying that, I <i>do</i> have the experiences I can write about. Maybe it's nothing that other people want to read, but isn't writing for yourself first? If I could, I'd write about the isolation one feels when realising that being nice is equivalent to being a doormat with certain people, or the disappointment that comes with losing an ideal of someone that never existed. Or I could write about the pure joy felt when realising that real friends ARE there, or the relief felt at being able to talk to someone about the way you feel. Maybe I could write about the pain of losing faith in oneself, the fear of thinking beyond the moment, or the anguish of having tears that can't be cried. And if I could, I'd wish that I could vocalise the language of smiles, hugs, and acceptance. But with those things, perhaps actions will always speak louder than words, and perhaps phrasing the emotions behind these, would only tarnish the gold and take away from it's magic.

...And I'd wish to be a writer.