4.08.2002

i am not aching for understanding as perhaps i once was, when i was younger, full of the need for attention. i do not long for the eyes of some other to come evaluate my being. i write here for no other reason but to write. perhaps somehow to share insights or fears, or merely to offer up the commonality of existence and understanding of one's self, or at least the common search for that so hidden in our own brains and typing fingers, yet so exposed by that very continuation of our existence. i do not stretch my fingertips so fiber-optically for your entertainment, or for your enjoyment. i do so for whatever reason - perhaps i myself do not understand. i write because it is in me to write. i write of myself and all the aching detail that includes in brain and in heart because that is what i know and that is what must be gotten out. why expose it here, in false ink on virtual pages? fuck if i know. i am a journalist of my own life. some people somewhere once enjoyed seeing the words that i so carefully or not extracted from this head and placed onto pages, and it seemed thus appropriate to continue with the providing of it. and i leave here for three months merely because i don't know what the hell else to do. i have so little of the passionate left inside of me and everything i read or see scares me half to death for the thing growing deep in my belly. i am huddling within myself, perhaps cowering. and my hormones and all their changes are making me tired all the time. i am too tired to think honestly about what i feel. and i have a life and a future and a husband outside of the web that deserves whatever emotional insight i can offer so much more than the three people who on occasion glance at this page. i need all my strength for my life just now, and i don't have anything left over to talk about. i could stand here and tell you, if you cared, how terrifying the world is just now - how everyday the news scares me so much i cannot spend the time to think on it - how all the changes happening to me and without me and inside of me are confusing and terrifying in their own right. i do not know just now how exactly to view myself and my life as everything is changing slowly and suddenly. i am indeed terribly self-indulgent, spending all this time thinking of myself, writing of myself, posting myself on the internet. but as i said before, i write because i have to and i write about myself because it is the one thing i am constantly dealing with and the one thing i am at all good at articulating. i always thought, somewhere deep inside, that if we all spent more time contemplating ourselves and our actions - particularly outside the realm of religion or psychoanalysis - that we'd maybe come to deeper understandings of ourselves and our actions and how precisely they affect everything in the world around us. i am trying very hard with all of this contemplation and blathering nonsense that i type in furious monologues onto the computer screen to come to some state of thoughtfullness, wherein i might be more gentle with myself and others; wherein i might know how to be more fully human and somehow serene; wherein i might achieve a peace with the world unguarded by human arrogance; wherein i might come to have my actions more correctly reflect my intentions. i am trying to perfect myself, and i arrogantly thought that perhaps a few people might gain something from my experience and my journey.

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