June 22, 1999 - Written on June 8, 1999

I'm staring helplessly at the computer, trying very hard to find the right beginning. That starter paragraph that will just give the right flow to the rest of this Scribble. By "right flow", I mean any flow that will carry me a couple paragraphs. My writing skills have deteriorated, as have my thinking skills. And in exchange, what have I gained? Nothing that would justify their loss. So, why do I keep striving for that costly goal? I can't even give answer that would convince me. But here, now, look, I'm rambling about something vague.

It feels awful not to have updated in so long... but after the first week, and then the next, and then a month, it gets easier to put off updating. Contrary to belief, the dreams and the ideas don't exactly die. But they do lack substance, or they make their escape with greater ease. I don't claim to have great imagination to begin with, but I do believe I could have much more than I have now. Maybe that's what matters: knowing you could be better than you are now.

I can't write... and that is partly why I can't write. I have become so obsessed (depressed, too) with the fact I can't write that I can't seem to write anything other than the fact I can't write. (sighs) If that is the case, then so be it. It seems that if I don't confront it, it keeps sneaking behind me and WHACK!

Writing is the one thing I've felt I was meant to do. I may not write the world's greatest literature, or in the modern sense, the next New York bestseller, but writing is what I do. I've known that for as long as I can remember. And yet, it's the hardest thing for me to do. There are other things I could easily excel at (and have done so), but none of them gives me the sense of accomplishment I get when I write something decent.

Do I want to be an author? Yes, very much so. Will I try to be an author? I don't think so. Have I given up a dream? No; not necessarily. I don't necessarily have to be an author to be writer. A true writer. (Anyone can "write".) Granted, I'm not pursuing it with the conviction and dedication I would like. My excuse? I'm being practical: I've got to earn a living. But am I any better than the kind of living robot I once described in a poem? I harbor the small wish that if I never be the person I was meant to be (ie. the best possible version of me), at the very least, I wouldn't lose something that was so much a part of me that it is me.

But each day, we run the risk of losing ourselves. Simply said: we're growing up. But that isn't a very bad thing, now is it. Yet sometimes... we forget who we were.

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