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I don't feel much like writing. I'm not depressed or anything -- I
just don't have an urge to put things down onto paper. So to
speak.
Three new journal entries from Ceej today. Maybe I was a little hasty
in thinking she'd be gone for six weeks. I still feel like a psycho,
although I did get a very nice piece of mail from someone reassuring me
that .nobody. wants to talk about liking other diarists for the same
reason. It's good to know that I have the same hang-ups as everyone
else.
I had lunch with some people from PernMUSH today. This is a sort of
surreal event. They're nice people, and I like them, and my life feels
very far removed from theirs -- although I remember a time when I had
those concerns and when everything was filled with such drama and
excitement. I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... it was a long time
ago. Have I really lost anything?
I don't think so. Drama always looks better from the outside, and
anyway, my life has plenty of it. It's just not as much fun,
not the breathless anticipation and meaningful looks and feeling like
the world hangs on your next breath. My drama is of the everyday kind,
the kind that knows who is hurting, and knows it can't help. Reserved
and dignified. It lets suffering hide behind pleasant smiles and only
talks about things in very quiet ways, because having things hurt is
part of living, and the time when we all made fusses is in our pasts.
Now you just get by, you make do. Friends help.
Not that my life is miserable, oh no. I wouldn't trade it. But I know
that nearly every person I care for is having problems, and that these
problems aren't romantic or exciting. They're just things to live
with, things to accept and cope with. So different from the people I
had lunch with.
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