Man, let me quote William Faulkner and say "When my horse is running good, I don't stop to give him sugar." Have I already used this quote, once? Maybe... Donde estan los numeros... I feel like.. Oof.
Daily Goal: 2000
Saturday's Word Count: 2172
Surplus/Deficit: 172
J.W.B.: 1998
Okay, it took 8,000 in a day, but I wrote something that I think I like. Remember, anything you think is tacky pap or just plain stupid, please tell me. I won't take it the wrong way. (As this is something I somewhat like, it's a bit on the longer side. I know it needs a lot of work and clarification, so I'll remind ya'll [and myself] that this is merely a rough, shitty, first draft). Onwards.
The closer he got to the journal in his mind, though, and the more he thought about it, the more his thoughts and worries and nightmares swirled and coursed and dashed about his brain, as if he had built up a dam for three years to keep those memories out, and it was threatening to come tumbling down. Journals had captured his most terrible and horrible thoughts for years, and not held them prisoner, but rehabilitated them, taken care of them, until Jim could flip back through those pages at what he thought were his worse moments in life and say, “There now, you aren’t so scary, are you? All you needed was some time, some caring patience, and now I’m not scared of you so more.” So maybe that was part of the reason he needed to get this journal back so badly. All the memories, thoughts, worried, nightmares, of that time in his life, had backed up, retreated, hidden in the darkest recesses of his mind, incapable of being treated and shown the light like all the other hard times in his life. He might have coped with them, let them out through therapy or meds or watched them seep out on their own over the years, in good ways, and in many bad actions and ways. Whether it was true or not, he could not help but feel the last three years of self-destruction were tied to that journal. Those painful, torturesome memories wanted out, they wanted clarification, they wanted to know their history. The journal was their history. It was so close. They were doing their best to help Jim find the journal, yet that was turning him into someone he thought he had left behind, moved on from. He had only hidden that person away. He could not keep the dark thoughts in darkness, anymore. If he did not find the journal, he would have to find a way to release them. If he found the journal, they could crawl and skitter back onto the pages where Jim drew them years before, and where he hoped they remained. A journal of pain and suffering in someone else’s hands is no longer therapy. It is a prison.
He lay on his stomach, writing in his new journal. He wrote:
I have to get that journal back. Soon.
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