That I should start this, after a month already of not paying any attention to that inner creature that tells me to update, to tell something, that everyday is worth recording.
Life is very personal in this day and age. Life is something you take with you when you walk home, alone in a city full of people. Life is the value of your own mistakes, something nobody else can quantify. Life is that thing within us all that makes us realize the we will leave this world as alone as we came into it.
It's been a good weekend, a weekend that could have been disasterous, that could have been tragic. I don't exactly know what to write about, what to tell myself, what to give to me and to me alone. I and others know how good yesterday was, how bad yesterday could have been, how I love to dance. Do others know how personal that is, how much I do dance only for myself? How many things does one begin to do for oneself and end up doing for others...
Somewhere, somehow I feel like I've betrayed myself. As if back when the pain was so great and the world so empty I had somehow forgotten that I write to live, not for others to read. I write because I must.
I'm not strained, but I am tired, and I'm fed up with my life belonging to school one way or another. I am more than ready for vacation, for not thinking about things due for a while, just writing for me, drawing for me, thinking for me.
So many little sorrows piled up, so many small pleasures in my life. I feel the tide of pain fading, gently, subtley, over time. When I was 15 I dreamt of walking the streets of Greece alone, of finding my way through the world alone. I wanted to need nobody, to be self-sufficient in everything.
It's impossible. I'm looking for love everywhere, it doesn't matter where. Maybe someday it'll find me.
I like this life and everything about it. Today I just might be happy.
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