This is it?

Sometimes, some things feel ethereal- even not real. Sometimes just the act of going to bed, seems so rehearsed, so planned, that one forgets that it was planned at all (though sometime ago). It's not even taking things for granted, is more like forgetting our lines in the play and improvising. Lately, I've been feeling that exact same way: like I have just been improvising because I forgot the lines that I was supposed to deliver on these scenes. Maybe, this means that I'm no good at plays and would do better at improv comedy. But secretly, I long for the anonymity and simple coreographs of the usher.

Always the undecided...


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What about this so called new life

So I know I was wrong... And now I'm paying for it. But more than just making the mistake of going through my ex's email, the mistake was making you my partner in crime. Though I am busted, I am going to stay silent on your matters my dear... Good or bad times, I have discovered that I am not you.

And this doesn't clear the fact that what I did was wrong, but I'm coming clean and trying to move on...

And now, trying to make ammends.

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2

This may be old news but I feel way tired. I don't think I have ever worked as hard as I am doing now. Waking up at 8, going to bed at 12 and working all the time in between. Just two more weeks of madness.


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Dust

So much time...
I have had this blog since 2004... yet I deleted my posts from that past...and now I regret that.

I am surprised because I have had my current journal (you know, a paperback old-school blog) for the past 3 years. I have not written everyday in it, but I feel like it has documented a lot of what I think. The usefulness of it all is that I can read back and look at how have I changed (or not) by what I wrote (or what I didn't write). I love that journal...even though I have said several times that it must die sometime soon, I am scared to let go of it. I have decided to continue writing in it, until the pages run out... and then the next one will do its job.

I have had several journals in the past; most of them ended up being not filled up because I was too lazy to write a full account of what was happening with my days...and I hated that. So I think that is why I am attached to this one so much, because it's not rigid and it has provided me with an open framework in which to just write whatever... Reading back, I see gaps and I can identify what I didn't wrote in those months and know exactly why I didn't write it...and that's another point why it's so beloved-ah! my namesake-becuase i don't care if someone reads it sometime in the future and has all kinds of wrong ideas about me. They can say whatever, that I was a racist motherfucker, a homophobe, a woman hater, a xenophobe, a twisted sick neurotic bastard, but they won't get it. Because my journal doesn't have any limits, and whoever reads it won't have the full picture, they will just have what I chose to write...they will just get to know a part of me, and that it's fine with me...but they won't have the pictures that I have when I reminisce about those words, and oh those wonderful gaps...so it will be useless to anybody, but me.