An excerpt from the last entry of my latest journal, which I began in June 2010 and finished today:
"I can't help but wonder if someday I'll have a grand kid who's so fond of me, and loves writing that will read this scatterbrained chicken-scratch, over-hyphenated and rambling as it is, and he or she will cherish it, in a strange way.
There's something significantly more charming and sentimental, and just all-around beautiful about a book stuffed-silly with organic thoughts, scribbled out by-hand, generating with the dance of a pen.
It's what I love; sometimes it's rough, but sometimes it down right therapeutic; release for my mind from the tangled web of thoughts that so often make life seem so much more complex than it is when you put its simplicity down on paper. Writing is a concrete reminder of what life is really like. A chance to pull yourself out of the illusory world you've moved into. A chance to bring yourself back to the basics; back to reality, breaking things down to make sense out of them, often more easily than anticipated.
I've missed writing."
