A Sketch.

The amazing thing about language is its ability to evoke emotion. To color things. Words are like so many tubes of different colored paint, and the resultant image depends entirely on the skill of the artist weilding the tools. Some people talk (or write) unceasingly, and yet say nothing. Some people speak only after deliberation, but are such masters of locution that when their lips (or pen) start to move, the room becomes silent, everyone stops to listen, and no one wants it to stop. With this latter category, it's as though the speaker (or writer) has some implausible ability to "see things as they really are," to make cohesive the human experience, to bring words to emotions, feelings, experiences, that most have never thought to put to words. Am I rambling? I'll get to the point. The first time that I read Virginia Woolf I realized that there is a uniform depth to the human experience. That these observations I can make are not unique to me. But that for many people, once the observation is made, it is either not fully examined, or flies away as quickly as it was received. There are some people, though, who can tap into this elusive... "something," this higher consciousness of observation, take a snapshot of it, and recount it in such a way that it is immediately accessible and meaningful to the person who is receiving the story. Like their eyes see through the surface of the every day to some often unknown pulsing just below.

Just a random thought that isn't connected to anything else.

Today: I am scared, and feeling really lonely. Lousy kind of. Not exactly sure what I need to do to deal with it. Stop worrying about whether their are expectations or not? Stop thinking about the ways that things could have been different, but weren't. I have not changed that much, have I? Maybe a beer or two more than was the norm, maybe staying up later and later. But am I crazy and just not seeing something? There is this new person who is becoming more and more a part of my life, and that certainly causes ripples for a time. But when did the bottom fall out? I don't know if I can keep thinking about this for extended periods of time. Causing schizophrenia. Just wanting to be loved and cared for, despite my faults or shortcomings, or differences, or however you want to label them. And in the end isn't that what everyone wants?

I'm not done figuring out how to behave. Probably I never will be. Feeling very much pulled in two different directions. This is just me being me.