An emotion as such tells you nothing about reality, beyond the fact that something makes you feel something. Without a ruthlessly honest commitment to introspection—to the conceptual identification of your inner states—you will not discover what you feel, what arouses the feeling, and whether your feeling is an appropriate response to the facts of reality, or a mistaken response, or a vicious illusion produced by years of self-deception.
on my dresser, there are a dozen and a half journals. there are more stowed away in the bookcases and boxes. in the back of my current notebook, used for fake college, i have cordoned off a section, scratched “THIS IS PERSONAL” on the manila divider page. and beyond that page, there lies a whole little world of scribbles.
i have no idea if it counts as hypergraphia. i just really like the word. it seems magical. i write. no. i scribble. i bring the notebook everywhere. this one, the one in the pictures, is new. the old one, it was blue. and it’s full now. this one is green.
there are highlights. things that make no sense. some random letters. angry outbursts. sad moments. revelations. but it still makes no sense. and the handwriting. sometimes it tries to change. maybe when i want to make sense. probably not.
i bring this up because last night. after enjoying some smoke. koren and jason looked at me when hypergraphia was mentioned on tv. they laughed. maybe uneasily. awkwardly. considering the pretend doctor on the set was shining a psycholight on the subject. but i laughed too. and i know that it was an uneasy laugh.
now you laugh.
