I always won­der who reads this. I try to never write for any­one else; after all, the things I write about are things that bother me, that I need to get down. It puz­zles me some­times when I read people’s jour­nals, and they start to talk to their friends about some­thing, or to some phan­tom audi­ence. I can under­stand why one would do that though, since the point of some are to inform friends of how one is doing. More often than not, how­ever, it seems to be an exer­cise in narcissism.

I won­der what some­one would think of me, if they were read­ing this with­out ever meet­ing me. Would they be able to see all sides of me? Would they be able to under­stand who I really am? Most of the time, what I write is out of neces­sity, and ends up being some sort of com­plaint, rant, or confusion.

I think most peo­ple would believe that I’ve lost hope. It’s quite the con­trary really. Ever since the sum­mer, I’ve gained hope to a degree. Of course, I’ve often stated that hope is a bad thing, and I still feel that way to a degree.

What I’ve come to real­ize is that I should pos­si­bly try to hope for the future, but not get my hopes up. The dif­fer­ence between the two is in length of time. Getting one’s hopes up has a more short-term con­no­ta­tion for more tange­able ideas, whereas hop­ing for the future is thought of as hop­ing for some­thing that is cur­rently unknown. If the future is ever to become the present, I’ll try to keep myself more grounded.

And if the present were to come to fruition?

Maybe it would be a good thing.