A Diary that nobody else will read

Hi. I'm going to write a quick-ish little message here that is probably mostly for myself to read (or re-read or understand or something; unfortunately, I have recently noticed that in addition to not speaking, spelling, or writing as well as I used to, I also can't remember things as well, for cripes sake {sp?}). Anyway basically here's my deal.

For years, I had a very long, weirdly personal blog online (CandyDishDoom). About a year ago, I switched over to this site, which is not so personal, but mainly deals with poetry and other writing stuff, and okay, maybe an occasional little semi-personal thought or idea, but not a majorly long one. My long thoughts and contents are now only written to a few extremely close friends.

However, today all these odd, post-stroke thoughts & ideas were coming through my head and I kept jotting them down on a random little piece of paper. They weren't poems (I haven't tried writing new poems yet since my stroke); they were more like personal blog-like words about different and difficult ideas and thoughts I've been experiencing. I don't really want to reveal these different and difficult thoughts to those who barely know me (yes, I did enjoy doing that in the past and even met some wonderful new friends because of it, but...)

Thus, I suddenly decided to start a new word-written Diary. I used to write tons of written diaries when I was younger, especially in my early to late 20s, but that changed when I finally got a good computer and switched to online blogging, etc... As noted above, my times have now changed and so I'm going to try written diary words that I write myself and only read myself.

Hopefully, this will help my writing continue to improve, but also review semi-important thoughts and feelings about this time in my life, and ALSO allow me to talk about sometimes feeling sad, blue, glum, and older than I should be (grrr!)! My husband was this age when we first got together (I had just turned 30; he was 37); once we met and hung out with each other, he didn't seem old to me--so why do I feel older now? I think it's because of my stupid stroke.

Anyway, enough of this. I'll be writing such thoughts/feeling in greater detail on words to myself from now on. I will still write poetry-type things here. Indeed, when I started my diary writing this evening, I was writing inside an old book (book is probably not the best word, since this contains blank pages for someone to write their own words upon) in which I had previously (years ago) written some older things.

Some of those older things were odd lines written by me, to possibly be used within future poems. Some of those older things were various lines from other people's poems, which I had especially liked. Here are two that seemed wonderful and sad to my tonight:

"A writer's truest self is not the person
you meet, it's the person you read"


"In the dead water
where my tongue is held captive"

That last one was written by Frank Stanford.