Seddah's Journal

(Good song.  I love Motion City Soundtrack.)

Today I spent the whole day reading about Emily Dickinson and her life.  I've always loved poetry, and writing poetry.  I could never be as great as her.  But I want to try.  I want to be a poet.  I know that's an impossible dream.  I know that I could follow other, less dear dreams.  But giving up on the only dream I feel a true passion for is like giving up on the future.

Isn't it ironic that I'm talking to myself about the future and not giving up on it when most of the time I'm preoccupied with suicidal thoughts?  But that's irrelevant.  What matters is that right now, I give a shit about the future, and that very rarely happens.

I spoke to George today.  He came to visit me at work and we went around the corner for coffee.  I spoke to him about the office drama and how, for some reason today, Rob was suddenly acting as if last week never happened.  I'm more than happy to play along, as I'd rather just forget about it and move on.  But George and I also spoke about the future, and as we talked, I felt like even though I know what people expect of me, and I know that most people in my life would support my poetic endeavours, I want to keep them to myself.  I want them to belong to me.

Until today, I hadn't written anything in months.  It was torture not to write, and to spend all my time worrying that I'd lost touch with the form and the art.  Writing something today that I am actually proud of, that I actually love, has made me cry.  I finished rereading The Sight today and I needed a new book to read.  I looked through my bookshelf, but I've read everything on it so many times that nothing looked appealing.  But then I picked up the book of poetry that had belonged to my Nono.  So much of the things I love are accredited to him.  I got my love of music (and my musical talent) and my love of poetry and writing from him.  No one else in my family is inclined toward the arts.  My brother is a talented guitarist/bassist/drummer/etc. but obviously I can't inherit anything from him.

I miss my Nono.  Looking at his book, I realize that I never really knew who he was.  I knew who he was to me: he was my grandfather.  But I didn't know him as a person.  I didn't sit with him and ask him questions about his work or his hobbies or his passions.  And now that he's gone, and I'm older, I regret that.  I regret letting my ignorance and shyness come between myself and my grandparents.  It's only now that I realize how much I could have learned from them.

If I ever publish and have the chance to dedicate my work, I'll dedicate it to him.

Nono, I love you, and I miss you.