Do you ever say things or do things…that after the fact, you find out you did, and you have no memory or recollection of doing it, and your logic tells you that you wouldn’t do that, that isn’t something you would do?

It makes you wonder just what is controlling you…

Do you ever look at yourself from outside yourself, and see that you’re changing? There’s nothing you can even do about it; it’s inevitable. But you’re changing.

This kid the other day in my class...he was called on to read a little passage. And he started reading, and you know when you have those things in the back of your throat? That make your throat all raspy? Well this kid, right at that time, was experiencing this phenomenon. But instead of clearing out his throat--which would have taken all of 5 seconds--well, instead he just continued on reading, marred by this vocal flaw. And he read the passage, the whole time his voice just a shade below normal level, just a titch off-key. And oh, it was noticeable.

Then, after he was finished, he tried to silently cough, he tried to covertly clear his throat..


I think this kid should approach the whole situation a little differently next time.

I think losing something is one of my premium sources of odium. And by something I mean objects.

I absolutely loathe losing things, because it drives me crazy. It leaves me with so much doubt, so much uncertainty. And then I'm supposed to just accept...that I'll never ever know the truth of where the object really went.

And how the hell am I supposed to do that?

I like the room I'm in right now.

It's down the hall from the main room, where the pool table and other games are. And it's far enough away where the more high-pitched sounds don't travel to. Thus, I can't hear the voices, all I can hear is the occasion cracking of the pool balls crashing into each other.

And it's like.... there's people playing pool, but words, senseless prattle; there's no use for any of that. There just playing pool, nothing more.

Sometimes I don’t care for dreams, because the emotions, the hurt, is just so real.

I want to start writing about some lone, isolated memories I have. Lately, one in particular has stood out to me:

My family and I visiting Mexico, staying in a resort. I was little, but not little enough to sleep in my parents' bed, and seeing as how there weren't enough rooms for all of us in the family, I was forced to sleep on this bed/couch/sofa thing (I really have no clue what it was) in the main living area.

And it was off to the side, all tucked away, this little bed/couch thing. But it was my little sanctuary. And I remember reading specifically, a C.S. Lewis book, and a particular scene in the book--a fleet of people crossing a desert.

And there I was with a little tiny lamp near my bed, and myself snuggled in my little sanctuary and reading and being transported into whole new worlds of the desert and camels.

For some reason the memory has been stuck in my mind lately.