i find motifs in my journal entries
themes that appear consistently throughout any given expanse of time
shown in any given clump of pages
or in any given pen before it ran out of ink
there are words that pop up so often i look back and think about the girl
who sat on her bed with sleepy eyes
and tussled hair
flashlight aimed crookedly at lazy scribbled thoughts
and wonder if she noticed the recurring narrative beneath the narrative
those motifs that carried most of the flow of her thoughts
but looking back, I remember that she didn’t know
or notice that all her words were roads
that lead her back to you
or to her
or him
or anyone
no, not anyone, everyone that ever mattered
has their own clump of pages unknowingly dedicated to them
like an author of fiction unintentionally writes about their own life
what i write intentionally about my own life is unintentionally about you
or her
or him
is it human nature to always have a person that comes up when you draw a blank?
almost like white noise
a drone that plays when the faucet of stories you tell yourself runs dry
a word or name you think as you fall asleep
or that comes to you when you’re in too deep of a thought hole
and pulls you back to the top
or maybe pushes you deeper
but whatever the case, now i know
that i can measure my time on this earth in phases
measure it in clumps of pages
or the ink of a pen that spelled out your name
when i had only just been talking about the weather