December 23, 2007

12:10 a.m.

Jasmine

For some reason I just tonight noticed that there is a place where I can list my favorite entries. In preparation for compiling some of them, I started back at the beginning of this diary in 2003, intending to skim along and pick out a few gems.

Of course there was no "skimming" involved, only a headlong plunge. I only got through about three months of entries before my stiff neck told me it was time to go to bed; in that time I'd earmarked over a dozen entries I'd have liked to assemble. It seems too many for such a small percentage of the diary. Still, I was impressed that I seemed to have so much to say.

What I found dismaying was that I was so much better a writer four years ago. What happened?

I have an equal or better vocabulary and command of language. I certainly have as much time to compose as I did in 2003.

It suddenly struck me: I was more alive then. I was ablaze with passion over Will, filled with curiosity and zest for my touring life, busy philosophizing the deaths of my parents and my own raison d'etre. I tied ideas together, I looked around at the world and made pronouncements, asked questions. Reading these old entries I was shocked at how many of my own ideas I'd completely forgotten, the profound conversations and dreams I had. It should have made me weep. My face wept a little, but no tears came, and that disturbed me too. I feel empty of that life I carried and can't even get down to mourn it properly.

Of course I have not been unaware of this lack of passion in my life; I just hadn't realized it ran so deep. Is it too far gone to reverse?

I am assuming this is a gift from the Universe and that I will be able to do something with it. For now, though, I'm going to bed.