What do you see when you look in the mirror?

I think I see my actual self as I appear to the world…yet still am not quite satisfied, and I know I should be. Oh yeah, my issue revolves around increasing fitness. Years ago, I didn’t care a whit about diet or how often I exercised, but that slowly began to change throughout my final years of high school and into college. Today I lead a regimented life although I doubt that my efforts are accomplishing anything.

"There are your lumps? Hahaha. Inside a rock hard body as hard as a man’s? Not one ounce of feminine love handle-like curvature to be found."

I’m generally not one to care about appearances so what sort of hypocrite am I that I am not completely content with what I have? That I’m striving for a ridiculous elusive goal? When will I be satisfied?

Obviously there’s an underlying issue here.

Read one of my textbooks today by Rudolf Dreikurs. He has several pertinent points, and two of them stuck out immediately in light of what I wrote on here yesterday.

"But the main stumbling block in the way of our knowing and using our greatest inner resources is our lack of belief in our own strengths and abilities...We ourselves are our greatest problem. We must first make peace with ourselves"

Because it's human nature to yearn for freedom yet maintain shackled, deceive others and ourselves, and to be fraught with insecurities and doubt, this process is long and difficult. Many never reach a state of peace and struggle with their perceived deficiencies and notions of inferiority.

Although it's a continuous process of growth and discovery, I think I'm coming to fully believe in my value, my place, purpose, passion, love, life, whatever you want to call it. Trying.

Freedom. Equality.

It is our choices and the way in which we interact and react to our experiences that determine our path, ourselves; it's arguably our greatest strength- the ability to create meaning and through this meaning obtain a deeper appreciation and faith in life.

Encapsulated with a quote. "It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

What is this sharp feeling in my chest that strikes without warning, tiny slivers of emotion? It is distantly familiar, a blur in the back of my mind. Welcome in its implication. Nearly forgotten but entirely recognizable.

This feeling I'm having?

It is contact and relation. Connection.

I miss someone.

Last night I began to delete my old posts, and tonight I finished the job. For someone with a faulty memory and a reliance on the written word to recall events in her life, this is quite the action.

I deleted three-fourths of what was written here. Not that I think this is of monumental importance or even is noteworthy but still I document it.

When I was new here, I posted regularly with mundane entries about my first year of college and the obvious fact (that somehow took me years to notice) that hey, I'm gay. I commented consistently on other member's posts and was nearly a one-woman welcoming wagon at one point, active within this lovely community. However, as time went on, I started writing and commenting less, and when I did write the topics changed as well. Gone are the trivialities. Those were replaced with intermittent posts whenever inspiration struck. Now...gone, too, is the spark. Yet even with my decreased participation, I never stopped reading what others had to say. I've checked Oasis faithfully twice a day for years now; its routine.

In the four and a half years I've been a member, I've read fantastic words, been awed and inspired by the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of others. The support and positive environment here is refreshing. Members come and go as is the way of things; there have been many people whom I've never met yet through the force of words and raw emotion have not forgotten.

I think I'm one of the last remaining individuals of my cohort who visits frequently. People come and go, find what they need and move on, a little better for having spent time here. I stumbled on Oasis during the beginning of the coming out process where I was waking up to myself, to what was always there. Now, I'm in an entirely different place, in nearly all areas of my life.

So why haven't I left?

Becoming. Growth. Change. Redefinition. Dynamic. Trying to be your best self, your ideal self, that vision in your head of who you could be if only…

Making the decision to act, to identify and try to fix your problems.

Choosing not to stand still. Taking the first step.

Being. Something rather than nothing. Knowing that the self of today is subtly different than the self of yesterday and tomorrow. Existence.

Balance becoming with being. Acceptance on one hand and change on the other. Momentum and stagnancy. The in-between state. Tension.

Stasis. For a little while. There’s never really a definite resolution, never an absolute truth. Instead it’s finding the middle between extremes, a process of development. Learning and modifying. Building on what has come before. Living.

I’ve been reading about DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) lately and watching a lot of Buffy. Also, I just read an amazing book, "The Spell of the Sensuous". It's one of those rare books that challenges previously held viewpoints and conceptions of the world; plus the wording is absolutely gorgeous. Its a book that makes me fall in love with the world anew.

Playing rummy online with one of my school friends, he mentioned this song:

You're gonna miss this
You're gonna want this back
You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast
These are some good times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna miss this

Which somehow led me to this:

Say you're happy now, once more with feeling!

Followed by: I know I could love you much better than this, full of grace

Ending, as always, with:

We don't have much room
I said does anybody need that room?
Because we all need a little more room
To live

Now onto something less lyrical.

On Friday, I received my financial aid package for graduate school, which should more accurately be called "Debt Factorial." Although I was expecting it, there was still quite a shock at seeing the amount in print below my name.

I'm still waiting a consistent little light that goes "This is it." Some days it is there in full color, glaringly evident, whereas others I question, wonder, and doubt. Where is my conviction? Oh this is getting so very tedious.

Reading The New York Times, I came across an article discussing very premature infants and their likelihood of success.

In a way, my lack of belief/faith is ironic. Or maybe miraculous is the more correct term.

I went out Saturday night.

This wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t for the fact that lately I could easily be described as someone three times my age whose great joy consists of reading with her cat purring on her lap. Yet this is by choice so really I can't gripe. Still, there was a marked need to socialize with others in my age group so S and I decided to be adventurous and go somewhere new. We ended up at this sports bar/dance club/beer garden with high ceilings and a vague industrial aura that made you think it used to be a warehouse, and after circling the different rooms, we settled on the dance area because decent music was playing. After a bit, these men came over and started talking. S hit it off with this guy who vaguely reminded me of my uncle. I tried to have a conversation with his repetitious and persistent friends, but it was difficult.

Leaning into my shoulder. Snaking arms around my waist. Rubbing suggestively against my back. Invitations back to their place. Decline politely yet firmly. Followed by suggestive leers. Sigh. Wading in a pool of lasciviousness, but hey, I wanted to go out.

“Girls Nite Out” flashed on the overhead screen followed by videos of male dancers moving their perfectly sculpted bodies in time to the soundtrack. “Friday! They’re coming!” and the screen faded to a music video. I smiled to myself.

The sky is beautiful at 2:30 in the morning. The world appears to be silent in its slumber, but then your ears catch the sound of a rabbit darting across the grass. A car door slams down the street. There's a light on in the house three doors down. The scent of rain is in the air. Darkness. How I wish I was nocturnal.

Our night ended at my place with S explaining her anxiety regarding death. As I listened in drowsy silence, I came to a somewhat startling realization.

I take death the way I do most (oh but not all) things: with a grain of unflinching acceptance.

She sits in the middle of the bed staring straight ahead, greeting the morning sun, alone and unafraid. The sun shatters the darkness of the room but is not entirely reflected within. Knees folded to her chest with hair pulled back and wearing a simple dress, she gazes contemplatively out the window; hints of loneliness and indecision are indicated by the subtle hunching of her shoulders and set of her mouth.

Isolated up here on these slightly wrinkled sheets. Seemingly vulnerable but look closer. The loneliness will not best her, look at her calmly splayed fingers. Transfixed by the sunlight yet not really seeing it for she is engrossed in thought. Her shadow falls on the pillow behind her but ahead there is the possibility of connection, of vitality, of chaos and conformity at nearly every turn. Should I do what I most desire? Do I stay here, halfway to desperate and just as remote? Look at the brilliant blue of the sky. Throw off the constraints of the outside world as much as possible and live freely. Free.

Change my life.

Look with wonder at the setting sun and rising moon.

Alone yes but not without memories. The light dances over her body while the darkness almost hides mine. There is joy and hope here. Alienation and sorrow as well. Delightful intrigue. Who or what occupies her mind? Can I ever know her? Collide together for one brilliant moment of profound understanding before falling in separate directions or perhaps uniting in a tangled mess of thoughts, dreams, lives, limbs, and hearts.

Somewhere someone else watches this same skyline. Maybe looking out a different window in a different city. A different face appears when her eyes close, when his eyes stare blankly. Looking up at the clouds racing overhead, fingers combing through the grass. Variety of emotions. Some thoughts tinged with regret, others will guilt, and still some with simple unadorned acceptance. Watching the steel gray clouds dump another six inches of snow on the already fatigued land. Red boots stamping an involute path. Then backward and forward in time to where only imagination can go.

Would it be true? Is that even the point?

Something I said a few years ago has remained in the back of my mind, silent for the most part but occasionally whispering in deceptively dulcet tones. “I’ve never really “failed” at anything academic but neither have I truly wanted something either. Watch, I’ll fall flat on my face when it comes to something I deeply care about and desire.”

Considering my view on the subject and my nonchalant demeanor I was surprised to find that those words resounded in my head throughout the application process to professional school. Why would those words stick in my head? Am I expecting to disappoint? Setbacks are inevitable so maybe I’m mentally preparing myself.

Those I spoke to about my doubts shrugged me off as if they know something I don’t, and they told me not to worry. Okay. Nevertheless, I was surprised once again when offered an interview for both of the schools I applied to; one was this week and the other isn’t until next month. Dressed as a lawyer, I left Interview Day with a sinking feeling because I thought that it didn’t go very smoothly.

Ah well. I received a phone call on Friday, three days after my interview.

I’ve been granted admission to their Fall 2008 Psy.D. program.

Somehow I’m the only one who wasn’t expecting it.

I want to write something worth writing and reading. A piece that moves. Something less self-centered. Alas, this is not it.

But I'll leave with this: Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sly...

“Brand New Man” plays on my iTunes followed by “My Maria” and “Neon Moon.”

Music is intertwined in the human heart, bringing forth emotions with only a few notes. There are certain songs that consistently strike a chord within one’s memory, and if only for an instant you are transported back in time to that particular moment. “The Macarena” plays, and its summer vacation. I’m 12 years old standing in a line with my brother and friends at the edge of the pool, dancing, and jump-spinning into the water at the final “Ahai”. I hear “It’s All Over” and simultaneously think of two things. My best friend unsuccessfully teaching me how to dance followed by wondering why we ever listened to 5ive. “Wild is the Wind” was the song I listened to nightly for years. Something about the chorus coaxed me to sleep. However, I also played that song every morning on the long bus ride during my year down south so that tune induces a strange mixture of shadows and catharsis.

But my father gets Brooks & Dunn. For six years he drove 30 miles one-way every other weekend to pick up his children. At first he made the drive alone, but when he and my now step-mother solidified their relationship he soon had company. My step-mum and her two children, J, the same J who is also one of my best friends, and Mike soon became part of the divorced drive. Anyway…after school on Friday my brother and I would wait with our bags, and I would “shoot some hoops” in the driveway as long as it wasn’t too awful outside. Dad would show up, and we’d pile into the car. I would settle into the front seat, smile when he called me Wigwam, and gaze out the window, letting the music wash over me. “My Maria don't you know I've come a long, long way…”

If you ask me to choose a favorite novel, I most likely can’t pick just one. I have favorite authors, I reply, and then provide a list if requested. Yet once upon a time I would have been able to choose one book. “A Time for Dancing.” I loved that story. Growing up, I seldom cried, showed little pain, and generally irritated people with my nonchalant attitude. However, this book…its one of the few things that evoked tears. That novel was boxed up with all the other precious literature in preparation for the move, and its been five years since those boxes have been opened. Surely its time to crack them open if only to rediscover what books once rested on my shelves.

Earlier this week I read the sequel to that book despite the fact that it had been approximately six years since I had read the first novel, and the book is geared towards individuals younger than myself. And as with the first, I was reluctant to turn to the last page and finish. Some things simply grab you and refuse to let go no matter the reading level.

Sort of like my thing with life, death, a purpose, la la la. Its not a ubiquitous train of thought but must lie close to the surface, restrained by something, perhaps rationality and logic. However, it has not yet gone away. “A Time for Dancing” reflects this idea, my thing- the single line on the cover nails the point home. When I wasn’t reading that book, I was knee-deep in the life of Dr. Kay Scarpetta. Ha- it was that series which initially sparked my interest in becoming a medical examiner. But before college began I abandoned that aspiration and shelved Cornwell. Yet a residual interest in forensics remains.

Her hand gripped mine in the dark as she curled into me, rare tears falling. Surprised me. Although I hadn’t done so for several years, my arms automatically held her, hoping to impart some small though inutile measure of solace. No words were spoken; there was no need. And sometime that night two days ago, for whatever reason, a part of me, a part of us and our friendship that had shifted and nearly evanesced, reappeared.

Savage Garden played in my head all night long.

I enjoy seeing and talking to people I haven't seen in quite a while. It's intriguing listening to their stories, following them as they retrace the steps in their lives, highlighting important events. It’s a pleasant surprise that jolts you out of your current state, causing you to reflect on the past and allowing appreciation for the journey taken to take root. Assessing for change, noting how time, joy, and hardship have shaped the person you once knew into someone slightly different. But then sometimes there’s a moment- a characteristic half-smile, exuberant laugh, witty reply, or slight shrug of the shoulders, where the present and past appear to blend and it seems just like yesterday…

A while ago I posted about running into an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in several years; he was a large part of my childhood and upon seeing him I was reminded of our history and how much we’d grown. No more Cops & Robbers for us. Instead we went to a local hangout, reminisced a tad, and I watched the easy casual flirtation he had with the women present. This is the boy I innocently kissed for years in secret, and that night a tiny part of me wondered what it would be like to kiss him now when we supposedly have more skill, practice, and intent than at age nine. That was the last time I saw him, two years ago. We spoke occasionally but then fell out of touch again. Our lives diverged, reconnected for the briefest of moments, then resumed their separate ways.

Then there are some run-ins that are strange and awkward. For example, tonight I was IMed by someone I haven’t heard from in years. As far as I knew he joined the Navy and was sailing the high seas into eternity, but apparently he’s been living the high life in town for a couple of months. This reconnection seems somewhat questionable to me since fifteen minutes into the conversation he inquired about my love life, what I was doing tonight, and then disparaged the male sex when I told him my love life is rather nonexistent but neither am I trying to develop one. “You’re an awesome girl. What is wrong with these stupid boys?” The unfounded compliment aside, I definitely found it suspicious because those comments didn’t seem to be fall in the casual friendly conversation category, and we weren't terribly close in the past. And he disappeared as quickly as he appeared but not before telling me I should hit him up so we can chill and catch up.

Right. When did I become a skeptic?

Here’s something I read that I found beautiful- We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.

“All this I swallow and it tastes good…I like it well, and it becomes mine,
I am the man…I suffered…I was there.”

Throughout my studies and reading I had come across snippets of Whitman but for some unknown reason had never read much more than that. Last week over the course of two days I finally read the first incarnation of Leaves of Grass in its entirety and absolutely adored it. Perhaps foolishly I began reading at night, reluctantly closed the book to sleep, and eagerly raced home from work the next day to finish it. I lack the words to provide a description of what I adored, but in this instance words, at least my words, are inadequate, superfluous, and trivializing. It’s a piece that can stand alone, great and wonderful, beautiful and transcendent. It grabbed me and refused to let go.

I’m going on like I’m in love or something.

Yesterday I went to the bookshop in search of a present for my mum and was disappointed to discover they didn’t have it, but instead I have a new addition to my book collection. Welcome Walt. And cummings sits on my bedside table, beckoning with a smile and the promise of silver nights.

Yesterday morning as I was riding my bike to work I sorely wished I had brought my camera. The last traces of autumn stubbornly cling to the falling leaves as winter creeps onto the scene with its telltale cold dry air. Pedaling on streets of golden leaves, looking overhead at bare branches, and being pleasantly surprised by a burst of fire-red color I made a mental note to capture the splendor of a fleeting season before the icy fingers of her sister close into a fist. When that happens, I’ll photograph the deceptively monochromatic veneer and take a leisurely stroll to observe the soft glow of holiday lights. I’ll have to muffle the internal voice that winces about the energy-inefficiency of conventional holiday lights and instead concentrate on the twinkling, and sometimes dancing, reds, greens, blues, oranges, and whites. Despite my somewhat newfound environmentalism, I must admit that my beloved city looks gorgeous throughout the holiday season. I want to begin a tradition of going downtown to see the lights along the Magnificent Mile, the 90 foot tree in Daley Plaza, and the amazing window displays on State Street, even if it ends up being only me and my camera.

Thursday marks an official day of gluttony mixed in with appreciation, football, and family. My brother, a freshman in college, is salivating at the thought of home cooked food and has laid claim to an entire pumpkin pie. Tomorrow cleaning and shopping commence in full force. Today J commented that “we no longer have a place for you at the table”; see, I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving in two years.

Last year I was the RA on-call for the entire weekend, and I enjoyed the silence of my residence hall as I completed the obligatory rounds. Dinner that year consisted of a consolatory aluminum tin filled with a piece of cornbread, potatoes, and unappealing kale from the nice folks who host a Thanksgiving feast for international students. My third year I used Thanksgiving as a launching board for coming out to my mother. It ended up being anticlimactic like most of my “confessions” were, mainly because it wasn’t something they already didn’t know. The menu was more appetizing that year although there was a surplus of stuffing. This year will be different. Why do I have this feeling of peculiar unfamiliarity?

Guess its time to shelve those odd sentiments and make room for an extra chair. Maybe then I’ll find my place.

“Open it,” my father says over his shoulder as he stands on a ladder applying a second layer of paint to our garage. This has been a year of renovations for my family. Gone is the tree with the birdfeeder, now reduced to a stump in the backyard. The single bathroom in the house has been transformed nearly beyond recognition and there’s talk of laying carpet in the living room to mask the battered wooden floor. It is late morning on the first of September as I stand next to my step-mother, who is repainting the deck a dusty red, holding a white envelope with “Do Not Bend” printed in bolded blue letters. Certain about what I would find inside, I slide my finger under the flap and pull out a photo. Black gown. White tassel now on the left side of the cap. Scarlet and gray cords around my neck. A wide smile as I accept the ultimate symbol of academic achievement. Graduation. Congratulations Class of 2007. Welcome to the world.

It is 6:26 pm on January 21, 2007. All is still and dark as I meander across campus with thick snow crunching softly underfoot. I reach the broad expanse of the Oval and instantly wish I brought my camera. I made a resolution at the beginning of the school year that I would take photographs this year, tiny snapshots of memories, before I ran out of time. I began taking pictures of everything that I found striking, peaceful, or memorable and soon discovered that the bulk of my photos were of nature. There’s a shot of my favorite tree on campus, its white bark contrasting neatly with the blue sky. Flowers are scattered liberally throughout my photo albums: the red, yellow, violet, white, and orange hues vibrant in their intensity. The Mirror Lake ducks make an appearance or two. But now I'm standing at the top of the Oval next to the Main Library and surveying the sight. The snow is an expansive unbroken layer and seems to twinkle in the lamplight of the lanterns that dot the main path. Tree branches sag under the weight of snow, and there is not a sound to be heard. "The woods are lovely, dark, and deep"; a line from one of my favorite poems echoes in my head despite the absence of woods. I am not a religious person, but at that very instant, I did not want to step into the pureness, the completeness, the goodness of what lay before me for fear that I would disturb the significance of the moment. Tarnish something sacred. Instead I groped in my pocket for my cell phone and snapped a picture. The magnificence of the scene reduced to 3370 bytes. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

“Charleston: a certified city of Illinois” proclaims a sign approximately two miles before Eastern Illinois University. “Wonder what makes it a certified city,” my aunt muses as we zip past the cornfields that line the highway. We have truly entered a different world known as Rural Illinois. A mile later we appear to be entering the heart of this proudly certified city. Cornfields give way to small buildings made of either brick or wood. On the left is a bank aptly named The Bank. To my right is the real estate office next to the florist. I marvel at the incredibly size differential between this school and my own. I comment on the excitement of freshman year as we unload boxes into the tiny room that seems to be a prerequisite for first years. Perhaps it’s an unwritten rule: if you can survive living in this cramped space, you can survive anything. I question the purpose of this building and remark on the quaintness of the Old Main. Mostly though I am silent, watching as my brother prepares to embark on the next chapter in his life and hoping that maybe here he will find his niche and feel comfortable in his skin. Here he will thrive, explore new possibilities, and feel a mixture of emotions about a myriad of things. Have I found my passion? Am I ready for this midterm? Am I falling in love? What does the future hold? I wonder if the cute girl in the third row even notices me. Why can’t I let go of the past? The answers will inform as to his true character, sense of self, desires, dreams, and wishes. He will begin to shape his adult life.

Months have passed since I wrote those words. The living room in my father’s house now is covered in a lovely shade of green carpet which blends nicely with the freshly painted light green and peach walls. I sadly watched the last of the tree burn in my father’s fireplace in late October. “There goes the tree,” my father said as he lit the match. Sigh. Sometimes when I’m in a fanciful mood I’ll wonder what the world looked like centuries ago before the booms in technology occurred. I romantically imagine forests of trees, jungles, and wildlife galore. Next I’ll muse about the world before the rise of humankind and afterwards skip forward into the future. What did the world look like? What will it look like after we’re gone?

“I miss sex,” my friend, S, laments via text. Reading those words I laugh aloud while nodding in sympathy because “…its been two long months. Surely I’ve forgotten how!” I reply, “I know. I don’t think you can forget how; its like riding a bike, and if it is not ooh am I in trouble. Since we’re sharing what we long for and crave… I miss physics. Impulse, momentum, classical Newtonian mechanics, angular motion, even the right hand rule.”

“Hahahaha. I miss sex; you miss physics.” I grin wryly. While at the library on Thursday, I checked out three books: “Angela’s Ashes,” a poetic novel about science, and an advanced physics book complete with problems to solve. I may have irrevocably sealed my status as a celibate geek with that reading selection, but at least I’m assuaging that particular desire or maybe I'm deflecting.

A few nights ago I spontaneously told J that I love her. “Thank you. You haven’t said those words first in a long time. What’s wrong?” I paused before responding, somewhat surprised that she noticed let alone commented on my reticence.

"I’m losing myself."

The stunning Chicago skyline recedes into the distance as the train begins on its journey south. Shifting into a more comfortable position, I pull a novel out of my bag and reflect on the vast improvement of my first ride on Amtrak over my previous public transportation experiences beginning with an on-time departure. The miles slip by as the pages turn, but I become distracted by a persistent urge. Write. Write. There’s a whisper in my brain. Then a scream. Write. Something, anything, please. I wish I had something wonderful to say and was able to write words and letters that pulse with energy. Sentences that lodge in your mind and slip under your skin. Writer’s block has become an enemy to be defeated, but I have not found a way to overcome my lack of words and produce a worthwhile piece. What follows is a pale imitation.

I need passion. Fire and heat. Maybe that’ll spark an idea. I wish to take walks in the rain and feel the cold drops soak into my clothes and chill my skin. Stroll outside during thunderstorms and see the electricity crackling in the air, lighting up the world for a brief moment, and listen to the thunder rolling. I need laughter and joy. Perhaps I’ll bake cupcakes with friends and fill the kitchen with jokes, sprinkles, and wit. I may even eat one. Wash the cupcakes down with John Cusack movies or a few episodes of Buffy. Also, darkness, shadows, and sorrow should naturally make an appearance as they are essential. I’d take nearly anything to vanquish this dreary monotony if only to end my complaining.

I need to do something, anything, to occupy my mind, and eventually one day I hope to adhere to my alma mater’s motto of “Do Something Great.” And if I end that motto in the same way I eat my fortune cookies (…in bed) I smile to myself then shake my head at my lack of maturity. My social network requires a few more branches so going out appears to be in order. Pull on clothes that actually flatter rather than hide, head to town, and have fun. Join an organization or volunteer at animal welfare. See- I have a plan and have taken steps of action so why am I still stagnant?

I want to create my place in this world. Begin the process of becoming as opposed to simply being.

I stare at the patiently blinking cursor with hope that this time words will come flowing in a torrent of emotion. Disconcerting, forceful, and unrestrained emotion leading to harsh and delicate words dancing across the page. The “r” extending a hand to help “s” to its feet, the benevolent “a” easing passage between hardheaded “m” and the unwavering “x.” There is something alluring and elegant about the shape of words, how they form on your tongue and escape into the world. However much to my disappointment, the words remain hidden despite repeated attempts, each one escalating in fervor tinged with sorrow. I am silent. Yes, words are forthcoming here yet they are essentially meaningless. Where has my voice gone? I suppose “voice” is too strong a word to describe the feeble imitation I called my writing, but whatever the name, it is gone. I haven’t written an “innovative” piece (I hesitate to use that word) in several months, and I have noticed that my writing style has become formalized and devoid of substance without the consolation of increasing in intellectual stature. The little creativity that I had has been snuffed out somewhere along the way, and I’m unsure of where I lost it and if it can be regained.

Is it because I’m bereft of honest feeling or at least believe such that my writing has suffered? Sometimes I wonder and occasionally fear that the oft used comparison of me to a robot is all too accurate. But I can’t be a robot, she protests weakly, for I have free will. “Free will without emotion makes you what,” the darkness sneers in return and continues, "launching broadly off emotion, is it possible to be free if there's a real or perceived deficit in value?” This line of half-formulated logic and subsequent debate doesn’t immediately solve my writers block but instead leads to where I have previously deduced the root of the issue lies. Ha make that the root of nearly all my paltry issues. Instead of posting, I should be rectifying the root and issues that stem like thorns while discovering an effective solution but facing yourself and implementing change are not always easy. No, that’s not quite right. There’s something wrong there. That’s not the reason for this disjointed pile of angst (the writing or the woman my brain questions) although both are equally true for a great many individuals. The root and hesitance to eradicate the root interact in a useless perpetual circle revolving around stupid fear that the problem isn't a problem at all but rather is a bitter ironic truth. Anyway, I can think of no better way to articulate the reason and sentiment then via the words of one of my favorite poets. "Ich bin Niemand und werde auch Niemand sein.Jetzt bin ich ja zum Sein noch zu klein; aber auch später."

Oh but there’s rumbling in the sky with the promise of heavy rains and gorgeous lightning to follow. I shall marvel at nature and take comfort in the pending storm.