Access to my control panel, my database, and my scripts has been temporarily disabled. Apparently, a representative of a musical group has contacted my host in regards to an mp3 I have stored. Instead of contacting me first, the representative decided to bring the issue up with my host. I would have been fine with removing the mp3 from my site if I was simply asked. I realized that it was a violation of my terms of service, but I didn’t think that anyone ever visited this site, so I had the song for archival purposes. Now, I have no way of updating my content, in what has become my main healing medium. I cannot be slowed by this, and even though it feels as though I have no means of expression or communication, I still feel the need to write.

To divulge is therapeutic.

Many may not consciously know this, but they divulge nonetheless, for what feels better than to express one’s problems or opinions to another? Burdens fall on more than one person. Convictions become stronger. In a world full of talkers, we need a world full of ears.

But I choose not to burden others with my problems. I choose not to make others feel bad, or worry them with wondering. I don’t give people pointless details about my life, or bore them with things they don’t want to know. So I speak to what always listens. I write to what is always there. I opine to what never judges me.

Everyone has a story to tell.

This is mine.

It’s night and I don’t feel like sleeping. My eyes tell me I’m tired, and my muscles emphasize the point. My cat is asleep under my bed, huddled behind the skirt, waiting for me to give her the chair. A night show is playing on the Aborigal Peoples Television Network, some small budgeted production hosted by a phony man with an imperative voice. The current act, a group of three women with banshee-like voices, bang on the simple drums they hold as they sing quick moving melodic lines. My room glows blue from a single Candela perched atop my desk.

I’m in an odd mood. Not quite content, not quite lonely. I try to remain stoic nevertheless. Sometimes it feels as if the night is the only thing that accepts, the only thing that understands. Can I express my mind to you, the silent orator?

Perhaps I’ll fall asleep to some Portishead, a remnant of some pleasant memories.

Unfamiliar pillows with unfamiliar sheets.

If you could know what I know, what would you say?

Would you tell me that I’m crazy? That I think too much? That the world is upside down? Perhaps it’s all true.

Could you comprehend how I feel or understand what I think? Would you tell me that you were sorry, or that I was simply naive?

Sometimes it feels as if there is so much to say, so much to tell, so much to express. At what point does ignorance become happiness?

All I want is for you to know.

I am usually not one who professes to know a lot. I’m often fairly humbled in front of many others who possess a greater intelligence than me (although I know my fair share of stupid people). I think that intelligence is something about myself that I’ll never be satisfied with. There are too many things to know and learn and improve upon, and the pursuit of such would take longer than an eternity.

Reading back on some of my entries, something which has been hard to do lately, I feel like a child again. My entries seem to be filled with such uncerebral emotion sometimes. It’s as if I can be greatly bothered by things that I should be able to overcome. Of course, it’s writing here which helps me out when I need it, when it feels like no one can understand or relate. It all just fills this written history with bias. Nothing can change the fact that I am still a human person who has emotions, although my life experiences have dampened them considerably.

I feel young when I realize how much these emotions can sometimes affect me.

I’m still unsure whether it would be better or worse to feel more. On the one hand, I can keep myself in check and keep my actions consistent if something happens which might upset me. On the other hand, I feel numb, as if things which should bring me pleasure end up being nothing in particular.

Balance needed in yet something else.