I don’t know what this is. I think I just wanted to organize my thoughts somewhere other than the messy paper journal I forget about most of the time. I have bad handwriting.
Things I’m thinking about but have nothing to do with anything remotely relevant:
Stream of consciousness is supposed to help organize thought, with disorganized writing.
I hate the stress of procrastination. I try not to wait, but none the less it seems as though nothing falls together until right before hand. I am a planner by nature, I hate not knowing what’s coming and I resemble a sweater unraveled by a loose string, a dying kite, a drowning sparrow when things don’t go as planned.
Learning spontaneity. I don’t know if this is possible.
The Last Minute came out of a desperate prayer. I’m out of work for the summer. This is something I am struggling to handle. I don’t do well without a schedule. I don’t like feeling useless. I have lots of things that need doing that I just don’t want to do. I crave structure. Until The Last Minute is the way I should live, want to live my life. Until the last minute, that old fruit rotting cliche live every moment as your last. Yep.
I am a believer in Christ. I don’t know if this makes me a Christian. That word has always felt like I’m trying to swallow cotton balls. It makes me nauseated. Christian has so many things attached to it. I don’t know if I can carry that burden.
I’m a Seminary Student. I don’t know why I capitalized that. I don’t feel like one. This title apparently makes me a minister in training. I’ve never been a joiner or a member. I like to float, a bubble on the sea. Let the tide take me where it’s supposed to go (please). I don’t feel like a Seminary Student. I don’t want to be a minister. I feel like someone who was shoved into the cubicle of a Seminary Student. Square peg in a round hole, swan in a duckling nest, a stranger in a strange land. All of those things. The inn is full. I am the outcast among outcasts. I’m a sinner among saints.
I don’t know what ministry means. I am okay with this. I am okay with this. I am okay with this. Repetition will make me believe it, right?
I like to swear. I use swear words. If it isn’t out loud, I’m swearing in my head. I will try not to swear here, but it might make an appearance. If I have learned anything, it’s that the occasional f-bomb is cathartic. People who don’t swear are hiding something. Swear words slip out of my mouth like gingerale from novacained lips. They dribble down my shirt and leave dark stains in the same place every time. It’s a little embarrassing, but also funny. I’ve been told that I’m bad at swearing, that it sounds unnatural coming from my mouth. I wish I could be a charming swearer; those occasional goddamnits like another breath of air rather than potholes in my tongue.
I don’t know what this is. But it’s here.