Inferno: Canto III, Line 9

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.

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