Fazed from irresponsibility and maybe a little of pride. That's precisely what I'm feeling right now.
I lost a material possession, which is part of a daily school routine and now I can't think straight. I don't know where it is now but I'm hoping it's still there, where ever it is. I know I should have searched for it during the idle school day but I didn't. I took so much pride in believing that thing was under my bed or something.
I hope I manage to find it tomorrow. I've had enough of reproof for a while. I'll just repost the story from my other blog.
But I did wonder what may happen to my private journals when I die. My journals won't scream for publication like Anne Frank's. I don't think anybody would respect me for all the things I've written. It's not like you'd want to know what the hell is going on with me, anyway. (Like that thing I reposted. You, and I'm speaking of the world in general, don't care what happens if I never find out where my LOH is. Hilariously true.)
It's still an addiction, nonetheless. Keeping a journal makes me feel like I really do possess my life. And I've got pages and pages of ink to prove it, for six (inconsistent) years and counting.
I lost a material possession, which is part of a daily school routine and now I can't think straight. I don't know where it is now but I'm hoping it's still there, where ever it is. I know I should have searched for it during the idle school day but I didn't. I took so much pride in believing that thing was under my bed or something.
I hope I manage to find it tomorrow. I've had enough of reproof for a while. I'll just repost the story from my other blog.
...and at that moment, I felt like I had just lost navigation. As if all that’s happened did not happen, and my head was merely just messing with me because it doesn’t know how to properly operate the equilibrium of life.On another note, I've been reading a play based on The Diary of a Young Girl. Not for amusement, but for the sole reason of getting through an academic subject. I've read so much about the Nazis and their alleged cruelty that I breezed through reading this without getting my emotions involved.
This is exactly what I hate, having life play tricks on me for hours only to find out that was entirely false. But I should be thankful, at the least. I now know I can live through the night with only one concern, which is the LOH that apparently slipped through my bag.
Or not.
I mean, I know how I lost it. I left it (with my Bible) on my desk last Friday. They messed up the seats and I, out of massive stupidity, did not bother revert the arrangement of the seats. I left my LOH and Bible in a desk that I can't identify anymore, and the worst part is, I didn't know it until, like, today.
I gladly found my Bible but my LOH was nowhere in proximity. There's a time limit to that problem. I've got to find my LOH before 7:10 AM tomorrow. It won't exactly kill me if I can't find it, but I know I will feel tremendously irresponsible.
Which I know I'm not supposed to feel.
Maybe this is karma. I haven't been very good lately.
But I did wonder what may happen to my private journals when I die. My journals won't scream for publication like Anne Frank's. I don't think anybody would respect me for all the things I've written. It's not like you'd want to know what the hell is going on with me, anyway. (Like that thing I reposted. You, and I'm speaking of the world in general, don't care what happens if I never find out where my LOH is. Hilariously true.)
It's still an addiction, nonetheless. Keeping a journal makes me feel like I really do possess my life. And I've got pages and pages of ink to prove it, for six (inconsistent) years and counting.
