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(I still keep a written journal). Does that make me mad? I found this page in one of my entries that I thought I'd share.
it's called: Am I (I am) Supposed to write a Journal
This wasn't supposed to be a journal but my emotions have spoke from a throat that had my heart lodged in it. It was hard to speak; much like trying to string two words together after crying out a thunderous storm. But for reasons unprovoked, my demeanor is calm like the wake of a static-charged rainfall. Calm but quite telling; in that the moments before, the down-pour of water that was condensed into cluds filled holes in the ground dug out by nature...or children. Like it matters. In the scope of things, my emotions shouldn't matter. But, I feel that I am destined to be public domain. Like I am supposed to give myself to the world. And not altruistically but truly and honestly to the masses. I am product of a shaky past and I am confined in a sharp mind perched on something sharper and out of balance. I don't know why I know all of this, but I do. I promise to have it all released as a pressing concern to others. That my life, full of pain, deciet, abandonment, and paranoia has managed to make sense. I am supposed to feel all of my pain. And I am supposed to live through it all. I am supposed to tell everyone numb with hurt that I am writing hope for them in my journal.
w.pasco
