journal 1

i just cleaned out my ears. it's definitely a pride thing to sigh in self-satisfaction and relief at the tremendous amount of earwax one's own body had produced in just a couple of days. Even more so is it a boost to the ego when one manages to coax it all out in one large sheet.

Do you believe me when I say writing is listening? as a writing major I don't even write everyday. It's as much a crime as a strawberry refusing to taste like a strawberry. And believe you me those strawberries have committed the ultimate crime of it's kind. It's fine to look green and unripe and taste like shit, but if you're shiny, big and red, you better taste like you promise.
I know it really isn't the fault of the strawberry. It got drugged up. It had bad parents. or both.
But as creatures of free will I am at fault for not growing up and ripening properly.

So I must set aside time everyday to write whatever the fuck comes to mind, even about the mundane parts of life. Because even so, there are kernels of meaning waiting to be made and understood about everyday.
Earwax becomes a metaphor for my refusal to listen to my own conscience.
Earwax doubles as another symbol for the relief of finally writing, and writing something amusing.
Earwax is also, thank goodness, out of my ear.
I can't wait to see what other refuse my body comes up with today.

off to class.