Tuesday, November 23, 2004


I don't write much anymore.

When I was alone and miserable, I wrote all the time. I wrote about how unfair it was that life sucked and that people were so unhappy. I wrote a lot about dreams because I lived more in the dream world than the waking one. I wrote about imaginary people having horrible things happen to them, partly because life was unfair, even in imaginary worlds, and partly because they deserved it.

I don't think I've written anything in my diary... um "journal" for a couple of years now, and the last entry was something along the lines of, "hey, I'm still alive, and things are going well... kinda busy".

I feel bad, because I do intend to have children, and someday they'll find dad/grandad's old JOURNAL and read through a couple of decades of abject misery and suddenly arrive at a sort of trailing off "AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHHhhhhhhhh....." and assume that I just died of depression, and that some vagrant soldier, returning from a distant war, had assumed my identity and taken my place, escaping from some shadowy and romantic past that still haunted him.

What the heck, that story is as good as any, because I am not the same person anymore.

Life now does have a dreamlike quality. Things don't seem entirely real anymore, and I like that. I sometimes dream that I am another person, but struggling to awake as myself within them. Being awake sort of feels like that now... like a dreamer slowly awakening inside this person I'm supposed to be. Thinking of myself beyond what I seem to be. Starting to see people more as flames of light than shells of flesh... that sounds crazy.

Some lights burn bright and wide, illuminating the darkness around them. Others flicker and fade. Some burn with more hate than anything else, darkening every room they enter, making everything around them colder. The metaphor dries out, and cannot adequately describe what I mean. I grow frustrated with words. It's like trying to draw a picture of a rainbow with nothing but a black crayon.

Maybe it is just an excuse not to write.