Oh the horror of it all

Guess how many pages of journal-writing I did yesterday. Go ahead, take a stab in the dark. How about none, zilch, a big fat zero! I did not even realize that I had not touched that little black bound volume until I got out of bed this morning. It's been a long, long time since I've missed a day -- over a year at least. Needless to say, I was horrified, shocked, in utter dismay. I felt somewhat lost and disoriented, as though I no longer knew what to do with my day or my life. (OK, so that was an exaggeration, but I did feel that something was not quite right.) I told myself, but you did put in a blog entry – doesn't that count for something? No, it doesn't. My blog is vaguely personal, vaguely detailed, vaguely me. It's not the unadulterated version of my being, the uncensored, completely free, wild, and tortured version.

But, there's also a sense of relief that came washing over me. Perhaps if I could forget to write, then perhaps I'm no longer in dire need of therapy. My journal has always been the cheap version of a psychiatrist. It has allowed me to vent, to rant and rave, to jumble up all of my thoughts and feelings and to sound like a complete lunatic. Better still, it has never talked back and told me what I did not want to hear. Its attitude has always been that of total, gentle acceptance.

All right – moving on. There's nothing I can do about it now. I could go and write two entries in my journal today, and date one August 2^nd, but those pages would know the truth. I would know the truth, and would feel infinitely more guilty for this blatant self-deception. All right! Move on then!

Two nights ago, a dear friend cooked me supper, and we walked around Deer Lake as the sun was setting. I'm going to let the pictures speak for themselves. Maybe the sense of tranquillity and well-being there evened my mindset so much that I could skip writing about it in my journal. (I thought you said you were moving on! Stop it before I smack you!)