Well, I probably will wait, now that I think of it how will I get back? Who knows? Making plans, setting guidelines, has been a voodoo-type magical paralyser, so enough with it all. Sometime soon things can click. Until then, I have to amble shakily, like I've done for what seems to have been a good year of bad medicine, and sort of pretend that what might be might. In such a case, might makes right.
Everything considered, when all of the tiny bits were all summed up for him, as they were near the end, he had less of a grasp on everything than he'd ever had. Sticking thoughts, that's what he blamed it on. Over and over again, phrases would remain crouching in the shady bushes of his mind, at little warning, and when he needed them least, they'd flung themselves forth and wrapped their sticky limbs around him. Rerun, that's who he was, in his mind. Over and over again. Everything considered, flinging sticks is bad, bad phrasing.
What am I supposed to write from,
When I hide away those thoughts that some,
Myself included, may one day find them,
And think only of the painted flower, but not the stem?
Hiding the real by emphasizing the little,
afraid any showing would reach to close to the middle,
of a fancy thought not true.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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