I’ve been thinking recently that maybe keeping a journal would be good for me. Today I stand in Barnes and Noble trying to pick a book I wanted to read. That was one of the hardest choices I had to make in a while. That seems kind of sad, doesn’t it? My day has a routine, not scheduled. Just a routine that just so happens to fall into place all the time, around the same time you would think it was. Ever since I was old enough to actually understand what was really going on in the world, something has changed. Ever since I was little I have enjoyed reading. I guess I get it from my dad. Some find it surprising, others probably wont even believe that I do. I guess you are assuming that I hide who I am. Maybe I do, I guess i’m trying to say that i’m still trying to figure myself out. As I am writing this, i’m feeling some sort of relief. As I am writing, I am getting my mind off of the things I hate to think about. The absence of the one I thought I loved, the things that I believe are wrong with me, and just basic clutter. I shouldn’t even be thinking about these things, but they are all I think about. It consumes me.