Something changed during the night or morning. This material world remains, and my situation within is also unchanged, but somewhere in the dreams something went right. Last night was terrible, just ugly beyond belief. Imagine cops, killer cars, and cop-like behavior. Sometimes a punching bag would be a dear possession.
Things are getting close, though. The possibility of getting things done is hope amongst the chaos. How much work needs to be done? I wish I could help, but I can't, I just simply can't anymore.
So I get something temporary to scare the ghosts away.
One more push and it was all over. I stood above him menacingly to make sure that there was no question of my intent. He'd been waiting for it all this time, yet his manner did not change. So I looked away then quickly back as my fist raced to his face. He was not really stunned, yet my mark met its pain twice more before I grabbed him.
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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