god i have some patience
especially when it comes to speaking to my mother on the mobile phone
she's still coming to terms with this gadget
its been a good few years you'd think she'd get the hang of it already??
watched a documentary about diaries
how they are deemed as clever tokens of memories if they are discovered
clever because the writer can edit and detract whatever they care to share and the reader will never know
'with my finger hovering over the delete button'
quote Richard E Grant
you'll always read the writers point of view and never realize some of the information is exaggerated and other parts toned down or concealed over
a part of me thinks that a diary is written because it is waiting to be discovered and wanting to be read, in a diary you are writing to someone in conscience, scripting in a narrative and a tone that adheres for someone to read, just like a letter that comes through the post is automatically a reflex to fix yourself onto what the letters and words make sense of.
its all such a strange process
and the feeling of writing this post makes me want to delete this, but then how will anyone ever know that this thought ever existed
for instance now, i am being prickled by these green fern thorns that have been shed from the bouquet of flowers i received for my birthday. Its gotten absolutely everywhere, in my bed, on my face and fallen into my tea.
A complete nightmare