Neue

For the past two months, I've been attempting to broaden my vocabulary. Every time I see a word I don't know or fully comprehend, I look it up online. It's what I did when I was a kid, and its result then, as now, was that I learned a whole lot of new words. I finally know how to abseil and abjure. I grasp (fugaciously) the distinction between the noumenal and phenomenal. Yay, words.

To my surprise, my evolving ability to construct a lethally precise sentence has left me, as always, unable to express my real feelings. The emotions that form my words leave them without their spirit. I write with an increasingly studied structure, but to no benefit. This diary away from the rest of the world is where I can write in private, get over the ugly adolescence of style without ridicule. That doesn't work, does it? I don't know if I just need someone to tell me my writing is shit, or keep writing until I find a louder voice and then have someone tell me my writing is shit. Like, I want to be this cool artist person who writes and makes music and games and stuff on the side and somehow finds a way to pay the rent, too. But that's just a variation of the dream I had due to the exhaust leak in my '89 Accord, a triumphant don't-need-to-take-this-shit reverie that made missing first period soooo worth it.

I'm reading this kind of weird manga about a queer-les-trans love quadrilateral. It's very much a standard romantic serial, but there's something weird, off - even un-Japanese - about it. My heart understands it and resonates with it, and I want to write about the feeling I have while reading it. Forlorn recognition. I don't know. I'm crying now. Maybe that's enough.