diary

Am I making something worth while?I__ not sure.I write and I sing and I hear words from time to time about my life and choices making ways, into other lives, other hearts,but am I making something worth while?I__ not sure.There was a boy last night who I never spoke to because I was too drunk and still shy, but mostly lonely, and I couldn__ find anything lightly to say,so I simply walked awaybut still wondered what he did with his lifebecause he didn__ even speak to meor look at mebut still made me wonder who he wasand I walked away askingAm I making something worth while?I am not sure.I am a complicated person with a simple lifeand I am the reason for everything that ever happened to me.

Help me to help you consider and appreciate your worst of nightmares and best of dreams.

Even if you listen to all the advice from your parents, friends, teachers, and mentors, if you don't end up happy, you still have nobody to blame. Nobody's perfect.

Amidst a symphony of entropic cascades, each and every drop still has enough gravity to make lightning or life.

The only shameless glory that rivals grace is unconditional love.

Every guard and every weapon have one weakness in common, and that is who wields them.

I laughed when I read about being born with two hearts, one of which is devoted only to destroying humanity.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

I have rooted myself into this quiet place where I don__ need much to get by. I need my visions. I need my books. I need new thoughts and lessons, from older souls, bars, whisky, libraries; different ones in different towns. I need my music. I need my songs. I need the safety of somewhere to rest my head at night, when my eyes get heavy. And I need space. Lots of space. To run, and sing, and change around in any way I please__uter or inner__nd I need to love. I need the space to love ideas and thoughts; creations and people__nywhere I can find__nd I need the peace of mind to understand it.

All the beautiful waitresses existed like eternal responsibilities.

Women are like locked diaries that men expect to read like open books.

The immense success of our life, is I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.

Zoo-Wee Mama!

Now I am writing this diary in English, which for me is not the language of intimacy or love, but an attempt at distance and sanity, a means of recalling normality.

This idea struck me: the army is the body : I am the brain. Thinking is my fighting. (15 May 1940)

Yes, our old age is not going to be sunny orchard drowse. By shutting down the fire curtain, though, I find I can live in the moment; which is good; why yield a moment to regret or envy or worry? Why indeed? (24 December 1940)

It (politician) wants to separate them. And to do so it has chosen the worst, blackest pencil of all - the pencil of war, which spells only misery and death.

A diary with no drawings of me in it? Where are the torrid fantasies? The romance covers?