Sacred Texts

Yesterday I was going through two bags filled with notebooks I'd sent to the closet under the stairs over a year ago. They contain all of the notes, papers, writings, etc. from college. I'm not a normal note taker. I remember things and pay attention better through association - I drew and wrote poems and stories all amongst my notes. I pared it down to papers that really influenced me. One was a comparison between folk life at the beginning of the 20th century and now, and how I longed to be on a quilt spread out over grass staring at stars. I used James Agee's Knoxville Summer 1915 as a frame of reference. I found notes and wrtitings from the creative writing festival OCU hosts. I felt like everything deserved to stay with me. I was invested.

Writing is always a form, pieces of evidence, of personal growth to me. Sometimes I flinch when I go to bed at night, knowing that my 5 years of ramblings on this very blog are not backed up. I love falling into the sort of meloncoly that fills my surroundings when I'm going through things I've written in the past, feeling the relation between who I was in writing it and how the experience of writing that particular piece solidified, in one way or another, part of the person I am in this moment. It's all relevant. These things are sacred to me.


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