Illogical

Don't you find it perplexing that none of my blogs really explicitly describe my life?
Everything is often vague, and hinting. However, somehow I consider this blog an online diary, of my life. One that can be accessed by anyone who may arbitrarily stumble into my realm of virtual fixation (harmless addiction)--merely cyberspace, to someday be deleted and therefore extinguished, as if it never was. This lacking permanence and public necessity has convinced me the best personal experiences are written in books. And not in cyberspace. (FYI: I spent months removing my xanga account, and my name and that account still pop up on Google.)

Nothing is desperately escaping my mind to type. I just need to draw, scribble. Listen at open mics, and continue my activism. My environmental participation has yet to reach the level where I do not feel the need to blog any of it.

I'm a lover of literature, so you would think I'd wanna write. There will come a time.
That time is not now. Hibernating. In my little green pea-coat (spellcheck corrected me...), intermediate locks, and herbal addicted mainframe. I am the girl laying in the grass staring up at infinite skies, the lover of social interaction from a distance, the visionary of holistic necessity, and the keeper of your secrets.

It's all in a day's work.
And whisperer of prayers. Can't forget that.