What can I say? I could be permanently fucked. They could ask of me a million and I will laugh like I will laugh when they ask a thousand. There's no escaping the shadow of doom. I can't turn my attention to the random topic, for it will always come up as this. In one way it makes no difference, in another it changes something.
And the damage may be more than I can imagine.
Imagine yourself alight over landscape, the wind about you is a confidant, a friend, it knows you. The most trivial things within vision call to you, sidetrack you again and again.
It's like an exit, only not as fulfilling as the closure we dream of. Not dream of, necessarily, but it is certainly crafted by our hand alone, the hand of The Lord through our little eyes.
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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