So I really thought I had ended the diary life. I really did. I felt like it drained something out of me... like there's only so much writing inside me and somehow the diary was siphoning off undeserved amounts of it and making me unproductive in more noble pursuits.
But I feel compelled. I really do. My second week of college, at one in the morning, with a sore throat, I am drawn by something, moved to rechart my sleepy path toward THE COMPUTER.Instead of where I should be, i.e. THE BED.But I'm here. And I'm writing.Again.You know what this means? It means maybe I thought the diary was like a cut in the arm... wait, that's macabre. Okay, so... maybe I thought the diary was like a cut in a maple tree, leaving the tree vulnerable to the elements, and to sap loss. But maybe it's more like you need to cut the tree to start the flowin' to make syrup. Maybe when I write in the diary it keeps me from writing other things. But sometimes when I don't write in the diary, I don't write anything at all.So maybe that's what that means.It also meansnew layout!
back ... and ... forth
