journal

And so I miss the fertilization that might come from a contact. And for me--yes, I think I might as well admit it--fertilization does come a great deal from contacts. Why then do I avoid them--in a sort of false pride--shyness--timorous modesty? I used to be afraid of falling in love with people--or having them think I was--that I was chasing them (how ridiculous--I am actually always running away!) but now surely--I should be mature enough to be over that. I am no longer afraid of falling in love, and the other false modesties should vanish. I cannot bear to think "par delicatesse j'ai perdu ma vie." (Because of discretion I have lost my life).

I now know, by an almost fatalistic conformity with the facts, that my destiny is to travel...

I wasn't writing home. I wasn't writing a death letter, either. I was writing a death journal, a piece of fiction meant for my family and my fiancee, Sara.

Because zombies can__ go out into the sun, most of them tend to be afraid of anything that can go into the sun and live to tell the tale.

Each day, write a thankful note.

I'm not crying out for help, but I am sharing my experience in the hopes that readers will get something out of it. I'm not the one who gets to decide what that is, if anything. I'm just starting the "journey" if you will, so I can't possibly know yet what the "message" of my life really is. I only know what has happened so far, and how I've felt up until this moment. I agree that reading about the pain of others is concerning when they are still hurting and in the same situation as when they wrote about it. But what can you do? You can reach out, ask how you can help and be there to listen. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. You can't love someone who doesn't love themselves enough to take care of themselves and stay out of bad situations. Believe me, I know this.

Daring soul has five diaries; gratitude, work, inspirational, prayer and language diaries.

Capture the sacred-thoughts and write it a journal.

I write awe-thoughts flowing in my mind.

Some days I wonder if I stopped writing about him, if I__ love him a little less.

My journal has become a paper mirror, a topographic map to my mind. It is where I go to sort out confusion and decipher the invisible.

I can write three hundred and sixty-five grateful thanks. Cultivate the habit to write gratitude daily.

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.

May you see the light through the darkness, wisdom through the pain and strength through the suffering.

Any experience, which is not written, will be lost in time. Rich literature is lost forever.

Memory is a few lines snipped from a larger story that we are privileged to tuck away between the pages of our minds.

Oh, how scary and wonderful it is that words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

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