Hypergraphia

"Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my mind without putting them on paper?...For some reason I believe  this if I write it down I should get rid of it"   -Dostoevsky  Notes From The Underground

I stayed up late even with the benzos in my system. I was told my journal has become a barrier of sorts. A wall I put up when I don't want to play. That happens a lot. Someone asks a question I don't like or know the answer to and out comes the notebook. I get in a spat and I grab for the notebook. I'm home alone on a random Friday morning and I write in that damn journal instead of opening the drapes or washing my hair. At a party? You'll find me scribbling away in the corner. Dining at any establishment? I don't need their crayons because I brought my own art bag.
It's almost getting out of hand.
I'm avoiding real life scenarios and writing them down instead. I have more unsent letters than I know what to do with. I make To Do lists I end up never looking at again. I write 1-20 pages every day and have been since I was 7 years old (minus a handful of sick days in the hospital when I wasn't allowed to have a pen).
I thought I'd try something new this morning and not stretch out that fake leather binding but now I'm hunched over the laptop tapping away nonsense.
Enough of that.
I write a lot. Eventually I'll write it all out. Inevitably it will all come to an end. Then what happens to the hundreds of notebooks?

I picked up a wise man off the streets.
He is made of plastic and sits on my balcony now.

So my life plans aren't going, well, as planned. Held up by loans and debt. Have to go to school to work. Have to work to go to school. Can't smoke pot during any of this because apparently that makes you a criminal and you aren't capable of working with animals if you toked last night to quell your anxieties about the inlaw(s). Bull shit system. Too bad I can't get paid to be a journal junkie. Right now I take work for my Grandpa running errands, filing, sorting, moving shit around, basic tasks of life. I wish I could do that forever. Listen to him recite poetry and offer me a prune whenever he notices my "shadow face" (the face I make when I might cry). My grandmother and my mother tell me to "get a real job". They're powerhouse women and I'm always dancing wildly in their dust waiting for my chance to maybe one day shine. Alas, I'm 24. I think I might have time. If all goes according to plan.
Plan:
don't die yet- you got shit to do.