This day has been a day of tears. I'm not sure whether to chalk it up to allergies which seem to be causing a constant runny nose and itchy eyes, but the tears are involuntary I believe. They came while on the phone with Carina telling her to remember to bring gas money, meal money and a sleeping bag. They came randomly when Danny called tonight to tell me he'd be home late. They came sporadically while making pasta and tomato sauce for supper. They came reading an email from Sandy, saying that seeing her this week wasn't going to work out after all. The visited once again while packing my suitcase tonight and now once more they are falling one by one every few minutes while typing. Am I an emotional mess? Why am I leaving again so soon? Is it because I'm leaving again? Because I haven't seen Danny for more than ten minutes at a time in over a month? I miss my best friend and little brother. I'm crying right now. I need to shut up. I'm not talking though - how can I shut up?

No, none of your suggestions are worthwhile or correct. It's not that time of the month. It's not that I'm overwhelmed. It's not that I've been doing too much or too little. It's not any of that. It's that sometimes I just cry.

It reminds me to be human. Not just to be counted among humanity, but to really remember that I, too, am human.

I think not seeing Sandy is the hardest. Have you ever just known someone? A person that you just know and not through any fault of your own? Just because you shared a moment once and it cemented something eternal. So eternal in fact that nothing will separate us until that one guy comes along. And he did. And it didn't last. But it was enough to separate us. He came. I introduced. They loved. They hoped. They planned. They crashed. He still is. She still is. But the barrier that once was never there now always will be. The knowing that he still remains a person I will always love, even though when I had to choose, I chose her, and she remains a person I will always love, even though when I had to live, he was the one that continued living alongside me. The hurt. The pain. The frustration of love and hopes and plans dashed. And nicely laid futures where everything moves in triangles, now is situated in a straight line beginning with her, centered on me, and ending with him. It makes for a mess, one which cannot be called beautiful and when analyzed and summed only adds up to u+u+me=y?

So we'll never be the same, no matter how many nights we spent sleeping under the stars that first summer we met. Her a kitchen helper and me a lifeguard at a wilderness camp. Her heart beating for marriage and a family. Mine only seeking independence and freedom from all things surrounding family. Our hearts beat to different drummers now, in fact opposite ones from those so many years ago. When did the change come? Why/How did I miss it? And when will they ever cross paths again? It's not that I count her less a friend, just a different one. I wonder if she misses the seventeen year old me as much as I miss the fifteen year old her. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with ages, just stages.


Danica just called and it appears that she also has a cold and wants to sleep on the way down to Albany, so my plans of asking her to drive tomorrow are shot. Perhaps I'll just ask Mark as he's the only other one that is also heading down tomorrow that drives standard. I just want to spend six hours sleeping, is that too much to ask? Perhaps it is, and he has plans of sleeping in the van - though that seems foolish as there will be 12 people under 18 sharing it with him. No, I think he might agree with taking the wheel of my honda.

Contrary to the many things I had to do today, most of which didn't take longer than an hour each, except the phone calls which took less than an hour collectively, I found time to begin a book. It is called The River Why and I cannot remember the author directly, but I believe by a James Duncan. I bought it at a thrift shop last week, mostly because the inscript
ion on the inside of the front cover [paradox] reads "June 13, 1995, To Murray, I hope you enjoy this book as much as I did. I look forward to working with you. Signed James Bruce." This captivated me because obviously Murray didn't enjoy this book as much as James Bruce did, as it ended up in a Goodwill store sold for 25 cents to the girl in a blue t-shirt and grey pants, yours truly. I am enjoying it immensely though, which causes me to wonder if I would have liked this James Bruce. One of the first paragraphs describes the storyteller's [Gus] father. His name, or at least his initial are H.H-O, and so while Gus's mother calls his father Hen [short for his first name, Henning], Gus calls his father H2O. His father wears tweed while fly fishing and silk pajamas to sleep in. A rambling fellow, he calls him, son of a nobleman in England. Just a flyfisherman slash journalist in America. Yes, I think I will like this book.

There are two things I want to specifically do someday, both of which should be sandwhiched in between the beginning and end of a honeymoon I may never have. They are, in no specific order:
1. See Les Miserables on Broadway.
2. Fast and Pray for a week in a remote cabin in the woods.

Sometimes I wonder if you are as bored reading about my life, as I am bored by my life. The only thing that really makes life interesting for me is writing about it. Because of course retrospect is always more captivating than present vision. Writing on this keyboard isn't very interesting, but in five years I will have fond memories of keeping this journal and could probably write something rather interesting about it. The question is, would you read it? Or rather, are you even reading it now?

The internet fascinates me for that reason, the fact that I can write a million words that will never be read by a million people, only by four or five, which is more than ever would have read it otherwise.

This entry is far too long and I am far too tired and have far too much to finish up tonight to be writing far longer than I already am.

Far out.