.:.

.: Floating in an arctic sea :.

I am really not seeing any point in writing these days. I just don't have words coming to me very much.

I suppose I live largely in my own world. Being a total introvert, I have an extensive inner life. Add to that the fact that I am private and secretive because I had to be to survive, and you don't get much interesting writing material.

Some people love pop music, some people love horror movies, some people collect dashboard statues...some topics seem less worth writing about than others.

Maybe it's the lack of anonymity here that makes me feel like I can't always let it all hang out. I also think sometimes you lose something when you share it...when it's shared, it's not yours anymore. It's open to scrutiny and criticism. Better to hide your treasures for yourself.

It's hard to hide your treasures yet produce an interesting diary. You kind of end up writing about what you ate for dinner.

I also feel that I am deeply boring and truly strange with the things that interest me and that I think about. So why bother with telling anyone?

This is why I love solitude and quiet. I think I am kind of like an iceberg. The part that is visable is only about 10% of the total mass of the berg. The rest is submerged under water, turned black and mostly invisable to the naked eye.

90% of me stays under water most of the time.

That's why it is so hard for me to write anything here these days.

Anyway...goodnight.

.:.

.: 10:52 P.M. :.
.: Sunday, Aug. 11, 2002 :.

.:.

.: << :: >> :.

bamboozle