Incoherently interpreting my own musings

Is it possible to keep the inner ramblings of your own thoughts from your self? There is quite a bit of difficulty scribbling down every thought, phrase, and word onto paper. As a mild introvert, I know this firsthand. I try to fish out those random notions whenever the capability of remembering to do so renders itself useful. Why try to save a passing idea in the streams of my own subconscious? Well, these are thoughts that are worth saving; for it reasons around the idea that these are the purest truths to my own visions of perspective. Amusing how these shooting "thoughts" are never around long enough for me to jot down. Or to share.

Vocalizing an internal dialogue on paper has proven difficult. The many failed attempts to organize these concepts often end up in the recycle bin of my neurological center. I'll often fantasize that I'll come across those uncaptured notions once more, only to find myself lost in other ramblings.

As a creative mind, I've always been a deep seated thinker. Not always pertaining to current events, differentiating dogmas, or Hollywood gossip, but on personal matters such as people with difficulties communicating in relationships. (A personal fave and constant contradiction) I possess stories that could last generations, and yet I've only been around for three Presidential campaigns. My experiences dictate numerous personal moments in writing; relaying the misfeeds not just for myself, but for others. Who the hell knows how to express themselves whole heartedly and truthfully? I surely am fighting my way towards that very answer.

What if we were able to express these "radical, illogical, and often misguided ideas" to others? Would it be better to filter out the red markings, and articulate the second draft thoughts? We all know how to vocalize ourselves; however, precisely conveying what to say, has yet to surface. The truth is often miscontrued, easily abandoned, and as of late, been exhausted. Is it not easier to tell a lie, than to pass along a truth? Copious conversations about bullshit topics are all over town, and all finger towards white lies and exaggerated tales. No wonder the ever popular growth in today's technological world; some rather instant message a complete stranger to discuss cd covers than tell their our own mother, "I love you" in person. Are we getting "connected" via internet only to disconnect with people in real life? How easily do we hide behind our own words? Do others gain power in hiding? Perhaps.

People who are guarded are afraid that you can see right through them, and that's why they hide behind layers of secrecy or humor. I would know a great deal about this; I follow this very fold.

Could this explain my insatiable appetite to communicate? More than likely. However, it could also equate my envy of talented writers of great novels. Easily fluid in speech and thought, I can only hope to hold a candle to their marvelous skills. I find that reading and writing are a fitting pair. Agree? I always enjoy a good read: Short stories, history books, old classics, and everything in between. Reading has proven time and time again as an escape to a world that I could shape and mold with my own imagination. Somehow, there's always been a mental vendetta towards reading. My aversion to the concept of not being able to pen a complete thought, rather articulate scribbles as well as my beloved authors has held true the past couple of years. It's been a love-hate relationship, but when a good book finds itself in my possession, it always wins; hands down. No matter where the battle of Liezel's musings stand.

Pondering such things have always interested me. Silly, yes. Random, of course. Boring, never. Perhaps musings are just that: Loosely connected thoughts, sporadic spurts of words and images, and vague daydreams. Maybe it's not so much about interpreting our musings, but living them. Breathing them. Writing them. Holding some sort of truth to them. Then again, what would I know, I'm incoherently explaining my own.



To whomever stole my notebook in DC this past weekend:
My thoughts, though no longer with me, will always be my thoughts... And for that, I pray that you never get the true meaning of my writings. You are not worthy of that privilege. No one has seen a word of my stories, and I'm sure I wouldn't let a complete stranger be the first. You only have one of many filled notebooks. And yes, if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a clever and funny woman. You'll probably *get* that if you can get passed the first chapter of the notebook. If ever. Who am I kidding, you probably threw away my work thinking it was filled with unused pages. I'll continue to vent, but I'll get more pleasure writing about you. In that case, your character will have a case of the clap and a series of unidentified knee tumors. I wish you luck, for you might become a recurring character in my stories. Jerk.