After the wake, I wrote the required words, resulting from my first encounter with death as someone older than five. I have written in my hidden journal, full of angry words toward myself. There is the useless plotting, of things to write 'some day.' If only that day really existed, somewhere other than the realm of imagination. Feeling full of things useless and cumbersome, and empty of things the that matter, leads to minimal productivity. As does censoring myself, to get into college, avoid trouble, and the scrutiny of others.
Sarah
I realize that this is not a happy post, however it's written so eloquently that I am entranced by it.
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