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Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost my chance or my ability to write. Like there’s something hampering me now. All that possibility I once reveled in is becoming dimmer and more distant in my mind’s eye. That’s one of the reasons I want my wrist to bear a tattoo quoting Emily Dickinson: “[I] Dwell in Possibility.” I need it as a reminder that things are never truly as futile as they may seem.

I just read a quote from a letter Jack Kerouac wrote to Allen Ginsberg where he quoted his diary and it made me think of all the useless babble I’ve written in mine over the years. Here’s the quote: http://unwrittenwords.tumblr.com/post/876032080/a-line-from-my-diary-we-are-sealed-in-our-own#notes. I’ve gone through a lot of different stages of thought about what I want in my journals. Stages of I will only write important, enlightening, interesting things! and then This will be my catch-all, my everything book, my all-things-accepted! and then Too much text, I need to add more art, collage, drawing, clippings! and then This should be a true journal, one that has deep meaning and thought written into every line! and then It doesn’t matter what I write as long as I am writing! So, I don’t know what manner of beast my journals have become over time. They are the echoes of my indecisive and ever-changeful mind.

Still, I wonder if I have what it takes within me to really write. To create characters and allow them to take up residence in my head for long periods of time as I learn their stories and pour them out on the page. To agonize over plot lines and tangents. To really write for unlimited periods of time and to have a place to do so where I can be uninterrupted by the mundane minutiae of the day. I just don’t know. My head and my heart are cramped with too much and too little. And my living space is not conducive to much. *sigh*

Ah well. These thoughts and more crowd around in my head throughout the day, jostled by new ideas and old worries. I give them all their due.