I keep everything. Even my promises.
I made the decision awhile ago, but I never announced it publicly: I have resolved only to write in one blog (that is, this one). This blog will contain all aspects of my life, though I will attempt to keep it reasonable and organized. For a period of time, I did consider compartmentalizing my writing but I realized (1) my mind is not too capable of deeply dividing its diverse (might I mention, mixed) interests, and (2) I am not as prolific a writer as I imagine myself to be.
Now, with this said, I will leave you with two things written. One by another:
“Katie.. for six years… I thought of how I’d ask your forgiveness some day. And now I have the chance, but I won’t ask it. It seems… it seems beside the point. I know it’s horrible to say that, but that’s how it seems to me. It was the worst thing I ever did in my life—but not because I hurt you. I did hurt you, Katie, and maybe more than you know yourself. But that’s not my worst guilt… Katie, I wanted to marry you. It was the only thing I ever really wanted. And that’s the sin that can’t be forgiven—that I hadn’t done what I wanted. It feels so dirty and pointless and monstrous, as one feels about insanity, because there’s no sense to it, no dignity, nothing but pain—and wasted pain… Katie, why do they always teach us that it’s easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to retrain ourselves? It’s the hardest thing in the world—to do what we want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage. I mean, what we really want. As I wanted to marry you. Not as I want to sleep with some woman or get drunk or get my name in the papers. Those things—they’re not even desires—they’re things people do to escape from desires—because it’s such a big responsibility, really to want something” (The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, pg 598-599).
And another by myself:
Really, I'm trying not to be too sappy.
There were two strikes across her left wrist.
The way it healed—if you could call it that—
Left parallel plastic bumps protruding out.
She had told me—she said, to tell the truth—
That it felt good at the time: that it was a rush.
It took two strokes—the kind of strokes you pen—
To end the first half of her life while she stared
From her toilet seat into the steamed up medicine cabinet
Of her downstairs bathroom, while blood poured out—
No, flooded out, like a peaceful river: it was purple.
She still has the hand towel she used to cover the hole
She thought it would’ve stopped bleeding
Like it would’ve clotted up and left a scab
But this was more than a childhood knee scrap.
She phoned her best friend before she passed out.
It wasn’t too late.
P.S. I like dashes. They're good for thoughts—second thoughts: and that's how I think.