Mostly I tear up what I write after looking at it once or twice. However, my inner voice says: Write. Letters on a pg. is a conduit. Through them flow understanding and compassion. Flow love, warmth, wit, and laughter. Flow truth, insight, and the Oracle of Delphi. (the rest of that notebook pg. is censored- don't worry, it wouldn't mean much to anyone but me.)
New pg. New thoughts. Sort of gory though. It's about amputation beginning at the crown of my head and slicing downwards through my heart cutting me in two. (more censored stuff; lots more)
Okay, this seems mild enough. So mild I labeled it lame and dorky. But on second reading, it seems okay. And more positive than normal:
The breath of live involves in and out. In and out. Life isn't static, is often erratic. And you feel about to loose your moorings, and drift into the abyss. But the abyss isn't nothingness; it is somethingness. Where dreams congeal and gain a heartbeat. Where infants dwell before birthed live and squalling. Where fantasy and reality collide.