Morning Pages is a healthy practice, I hear. Writing down what your mind regurgitates first thing in the morning helps clear it of those thoughts so you can get on with your day, rid of them. I don’t understand how writing down clingy torments helps cast them out. They like to live in an amorphous cloud, as spirits, taking shape at the most sudden of times. Writing about them can only give them something to form around, right? A mast for their black sails.
When I try Morning Pages it turns into a treatise on Morning Pages. I can’t think to the past or the future. I hear it’s good to live in the moment, that it helps in truly enjoying life. But—what if that’s all you can do? What if memory is your mind’s Valhalla and planning its archenemy? So, when you wake, whatever you’re feeling is the only thing that’s real. I imagine others can simply look out a window to remember what happened yesterday—not only the events, but the feelings, the tastes, touches, all of its now-historical pleasures and indulgences, aches and hard-won knowledge, comforts and risks. I can’t just look out of a window; I have to open the door and walk outside, wander around, grasp at all the shapeless figures. Their influence lives as a shadow in my present. “That’s good,” you might think. “I’m jealous of that,” even. You struggle daily to shake off all that past shit and start anew. And that sounds extremely difficult in its own right. But when your access to past/future is so limited, your memory so unreliable, big decisions are such a fucking gamble. I feel like this today; I have absolutely no idea how I’ll feel tomorrow. Oh, this totally seems like the right call—but guess what, I haven’t processed the last year of my life yet, the one full of events that need to be dealt with on every single level, to be able to make moves in my best interest.
When your ghostly undealt-with emotions reach a certain point, a gathering inner storm, something will eventually happen to shape it into a funneled tornado, zapping you with focus, forcing you to deal.
Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes I wish for a nice and steady melancholy rain instead.
Writing has always functioned as a channel for me, even before I knew that’s what I was doing. I imagine my pen as a vacuum, plucking this thought and that feeling from restless purgatory, sucking in everything I absorb, distilling it into truths. Well, hopefully truths.
Morning Pages, May 4, 2017.
Sounds too much like Mourning Pages. It’s sunny. Double-helix dust motes in the light, I always think that when I see them and don’t remember where I got it from. I think I wrote it in high school, but also I think I stole it from something. I remember when I saw something funny on Twitter and made a friend laugh with it and I felt guilty for like a week because it wasn’t mine. I think all my dreams involved bruises. Violet just said good morning and fell back asleep. Chubby angel cheeks with that child shine on them. Every time we fight she says Mommy I love you. To make sure I know and also so I can reassure her that I still love her. When life hands you demons, make demonade. The em dash is FAR superior to the en dash. I REALLY want a Frankie Say Relax shirt. Fuck, I gotta get ready for work.