Sometimes I have things to say, ideas and emotions to share, but I don’t. I’m always afraid they will come out sounding insincere or, what, I don’t know, dramatic or something. It’s too bad, sometimes I think my mind is an interesting place to visit, but I don’t really know how to get people inside there. So I just keep things on a surface level. Maybe one day I’ll get it right. I think I’m getting better at it, getting it right. The writing is helping. I wish I were a better writer but I’m working on it.
I’m so impatient, I want everything all at once. I work too hard and get so frustrated. It’s like I hear a clock ticking all the time and I’m terrified it’ll stop before I’ve gotten anything accomplished. My dad died so quickly. I felt like he was finally on the right track to something. Then bam, 6 months of illness, too sick and tired to do much of anything, then his number was up, just like that. You don’t know when it’ll happen. I think it’s even worse when it’s a terminal illness and you know you have so little time left and no energy to do anything with it. I suppose I live my life as if I am about to find out I have a terminal illness. I’m knocking on wood even as I type this. It’s something I’m afraid to talk about without a lot of wood around me. The way the first couple dozen years of my life went, I’m kind of amazed I’m still here. I’m so thankful for every glorious day, even the tough ones. I want to work hard but I want to see my friends more. How do I balance? How do I get that right?