From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale

People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

--Diane Setterfield



Thursday, August 16, 2007

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

if you can't make you mind up, we'll never get started... And I don't want to wind up being parted broken hearted...

I would like to clarify my aversion to online journals... I'm not a positive journal writer... I write to channel my anger, so it ends up looking like I'm never happy.

I'd wish to influence the perception other get of me so they think I am nice, and happy... perhaps then they will like me.

That will have to happen in real life.

ah, I remember a trick I use in a real journal.

I am loved.

Repeating this mantra at the close of my journal entries brings some positive karma back to an otherwise bleak entry.
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2 comments:

Michelle said...

I love you Arren!

August 16, 2007 at 8:30 PM
Allison @ House of Hepworths said...

You should read my old high school journals. The only time I ever wrote was when I was hating my dad. They are pretty bad. You are not alone!

September 1, 2007 at 8:09 PM

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