It started as a frustrated attempt at temperance. For almost my entire life, everyone I have known has been, in theory, constantly available. I’ve sent texts, typed emails, pinged instant messages, made phone calls, and I’ve cried, told stories, complained, joked, lied, reminisced, and felt outwardly annoying to those who had to listen due to the modern-era ease of constant communication. Communication no longer requires the recipient to be within earshot, nor does it require their desire to know what the sender wants to say before knowing what the sender wants to say. I consider this to be an unfortunate lack of choice.
I started writing notes to no one as a way to prevent talking at people who did not actively choose to talk with me. I started writing notes to no one when there was no one around (physically, theoretically, spiritually) to talk to. I started writing notes to no one to figure out how I felt about Things, and to describe what was too intimately felt to discuss. I started to like writing notes to no one and it shifted from a way to quell the social anxiety of the antisocial behaviors of textual communication to sort of a hobby to very much an interest in language, style, lyricism, con- and denotation, communication, and where they all collide within written word.
I write down phrases that I think sound nice and ideas I have, read, or hear. I think about the dimensions of description, enjoy wordplay, listen to the lyrics of songs as language almost more than as music, and list things in ways that are slightly off. I enjoy awkward, playful, and grammatically-almost-correct sentences. I exercise my right to invent new words with prefixes, suffixes, and portmanteauization and within reason (I think). I appreciate tautologies and direct opposites and prefer piles of adjectives to single adverbs. If I could, I would merge poetry, essay, fiction, nonfiction, and memoir into one genre. I enjoy what I write down; you could choose to.