Again the sun rolls through the sky and I am hardly here. Something must be done, I need to get it working. So little to hold on to these days. So few people around that I know and can pass the time with. It's broken apart again, and I have nowhere to run.
Threading a path through the marketplace could be, on certain carnival days, and excruciating and plodding experience. The marching others, with no concern for anything; they come at you from up ahead, or from the sides; sometimes they may nearly trample you over your back, some of the taller ones. The shouts are in your ear alone, no distance exists, no space between them and yourself. Anyone else around is drowned out by that woman next to you, trying to get away with something, or that crazed man who wishes to get everything for very little. At times one may literally spin about the clamour, and lose direction, too, if their landmarks are ill-placed, and end up at certain angles hidden by the shrine-like stands.
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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