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Where are all the sto­ries?
I find I am afraid of writ­ing, afraid of the sto­ries that may come forth. I am afraid of the toil, the mad­ness from not attain­ing per­fec­tion (and that, we know but not under­stand, is impos­si­ble), the frus­tra­tion and heartache that fol­lows like a writer’s faith, of which there is none. …

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I think I’m going mad. Going home for the hol­i­days most cer­tainly does not suit me. It reminds me, albeit far too late, that I have yet mas­tered the art of deal­ing with my fam­ily (if indeed, any­one does, bar­ing those who are con­vinced that they have always been well-adjusted, what­ever that means). There is …

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Explor­ing options, look­ing around, breath­ing fresh air — I seem to be seek­ing; what for I’m unsure yet, per­haps a sense of peace, a calm acknowl­edge­ment that this is right, that I am on the right track after all.
But I can never tell for sure.
Just a con­stant mantra of let go, let go, let go. I will …

.
I believe my jour­nals will be bound in black from now on, sim­ply and starkly so. Life should, can, be refined into some­thing so basic, so com­fort­ably real. The lines give warmth, steadi­ness to the thread of my pen (the ink is black too), and the words may flow more eas­ily.
There have been times (whither …