I am a writer.
Not by choice, but by compulsion. I write my thoughts out, like this, to no one in particular. The majority of my life is on paper; every day, every year for the past 10 years in a collection of diaries. My very first one, however, was a Lion King diary in which I would write about how I must marry Anthony Ventucci, a boy in my sister’s eighth grade class, and would sign my name “Karina Ventucci.” I was 7.
I write to savor the moments that I’m terrified will get lost and forgotten somewhere in time if I don’t document them. I write with the deepest intention to create a connection to anyone who takes the time out to read what I have to say. I write with the hopes that I can be understood; that I won’t feel so lost inside my own head, and that you, too, might find that solace as well.
Most of the time I am thinking of ways in how I can be better, do better, feel better- whatever “better” really is. I spend the majority of my life in deep thought about everything. I think about how we all know were going to die, and yet that doesn’t seem to matter to any of us right now. How stupid and immature we all act, every one of us, when we focus on bullshit, when we are mean, and harbor anger. When we hurt people just to bring them down, when we put on fronts and play games with people we care most about – how completely pointless all that is, when we have a limited time here.
I think about the people I have loved- not just lovers, but friends too- and how it seems that the ones I have loved the most, are the ones who have caused me the most pain. They are my biggest muses of all. Sometimes I think there’s something terribly wrong with me that I don’t see, and that fear keeps me up at night.
I rattle my brain replaying the past, trying to stay in the present. I ache with missing certain people, even though I know I shouldn’t. I wish, pray, and yearn to reach a place where I have all that I want: Love, peace, success. Happiness. But it always seems like something’s missing, or something’s getting taken away, or something’s being added.
Maybe it’s just me, but this is what I write about; this is why I write. This is my life, through my eyes, and I invite you to take a peek into my world. It’s chaotic, and unpredictable, but I do believe, that on some days, it’s quite beautiful, in all it’s poetic little tragedies….
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