"A good example is the best sermon." - Thomas Fuller

 

December 4, 1999

Dear Reader,

I have to admit I almost feel guilty for not writing sooner, jotting down the details of my life. Here I am a conglomeration of memories that live inside this body lonely walking through the world, known to so very little. My past, it often seems, is what makes me. Why have I neglected to record it?

Perhaps it's because the events of the past do not so much make me as those ideas I've opened myself to. I may have had an experience, but if it teaches me nothing what is the memory but something for a nostalgic afternoon?

And so I sit here, the memories of early childhood running through my mind. The day I defiantly threw a rock into the air and discovered gravity. The time I laughed at my brother, falling backwards off his bike, breaking his arm. When I introduced two completely dislike friends together in grade school and watched them dare each other into a fight over lunch recess. What do they mean? What does this make me?

Or the later years. The first time I had sex, using two condoms to assuage the fears of pregnancy my girlfriend had professed. Or walking quickly through the halls of my high school with my head down so the jocks and yuppies wouldn't beat my heart down. Or leaving high school a year early so I could experience a deeper education at college, only to learn that the classes I was taking were more advanced than those offered at a college.

My first love. My first breakup. My first burned hand and bounced check. The first time I wanted to take my life, holding tight onto my favorite stuffed animal and crying. What man am I be these events? And who do you think they make me?

                                             oOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoo..
                                             """""""""""OOOOOOOOo.
                                           ..oooooooo..    `""OOOOO.
                                       .oOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOo     OOOOO
                     ..ooOOOOOOo..oooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooOOOOO'
            .Oo...ooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"'
        .oooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"~~
          \oOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO'
           OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO'
          __\OO/"    "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO`OOOOOOOOOOOOO"
            /|\   .oOOooo- `OOOOOOOO""   .O`OOOOOOOOOO'
  oO--.        .oOOOO"~    .OOOOO'      QQOOO`OOOOOOOOOo
  +o--o`----QQOOO"~       .OOOOO'                 `OOOOO
                         .OOOO'                  QQQQO"
                       QQQQO"

December 3rd, 1999

The date is December 3, 1999. It is 5:41am. I'm writing in a rather ordinary spiral bound notebook, the kind you find in any grocery store. It isn't too fancy, plain blue cover and I couldn't even tell you why I bought it. Frankly, I hate spiral bound folders because you can't rip out a page without all those little bits of paper scattering themselves about. Or maybe it's just me, I refuse to rip along the perforations in the paper, unwilling to allow my spiral to end up filled with empty pages.

A whim is why I bought it and I suppose you might say a whim is why I'm writing. It's not that anyone's going to read this and it's not like I have anything intelligent to say. I just needed to say something and here I am saying or writing it, whatever you prefer. Maybe, just maybe something wise might come out of my head onto one of these pages. That, I think will be a page worth saving.

At this point my only concern is keeping at this every day. I've never been able to keep a schedule, particularly one that isn't handed out by an authority figure-and I honestly haven't been interested in keeping to that-but lately it's as if part of me has given up the will or lost the push or what have you. So here I am writing hoping tomorrow I'll keep writing and perhaps I'll have something, dear reader, for you to enjoy and perhaps ponder in the days to come.

With that said I wish you a good morning.