It's finally happened, and I am alone with nothing to occupy me but my poetry books and this journal. I also have a pen I need to press down on before it rolls smoothly. My printing is decisive.
Tim and I are at his parents' house. I have finally escaped the laundry and the laptop at home.
I aim to finish this book by Christmas. A new journal for a new year? Yes, I think it's as appropriate as ever. Since I was seven I've been a writer. It's shameful that this notebook has lasted me a full semester. I've been neglecting a part of me that has outlasted my adherence to Christianity. I always suspected it would.
I'm close to finishing a poem. I hauled it out again two nights ago. Three cheers for me! Sure enough, now that I'm thinner, I look more like a poet. Soon I'll have mystique. It's ridiculous how accessible poets make themselves these days.
I am in love with the idea of being a poet. Embarrassingly naive? Maybe, but it's working.
By the way, I have a new idol. She rivals S.P. Her name is Wislawa Szymborska.