Have you ever made the mistake of reading a diary or an old journal? Hell, if you're a writer, even reading some old work can have this same effect. It's like catching a glimpse of yourself in a dirty puddle, you know it's you, but you seem somehow unrecognizable, blemished, altogether different. Maybe I'm narcissistic, but I often look at reflections of myself, not only in mirrors but in all kinds of places. Yes, I tend to reflect on myself quite a bit these days. Har har... reflect. But seriously, I do.


I uncovered one of my old, well, older, moleskins and flipped through it, and by flipped through it, I mean read all of it over again because I have some morbid fascination with myself. Here's a little excerpt from 11/5/07:


"... I really want to feel better. This I know is true. I want to be relaxed and fearless. Even w/ pain, I have a dichotomy. I actually enjoy physical pain, but am scared to emotional death of any other pain. Wierd. Kinda like I love, LOVE, who I've become, but I'm scared of who I am. I feel like a success and a failure because I know, yes, I know that finding out who I am and not being afraid surpases any and all other things. But I'm so scared... and I hate myself for that."


Scared to emotional death? Hmmm...