Chrisonomicon

Wednesday, February 5, 2003

A fog of snow descended, enclosing the mile between my apartment and work inside of an almost dreamlike sphere hemmed in on all sides by light trapped in the suspended powder. And as spectacular as it was, I suddenly realize that I wrote about snow yesterday. Ten years from now I'm not going to be interested in weather patterns. The thing to notice, however, is my tendency to write about the weather when I'm trying to avoid something.

And I am avoiding many things that I should be writing about, issues that need sorthing through, problems that have whispered to one another behind corners and through walls, walls that have appeared overnight or in the absence of a glance. They remain in the dark because I am afraid of exposure. I feel so intensely — and, yes, perhaps unjustifiably — vulnerable by laying the words down, by merely placing the letters in order on the screen.

But then, I realize it's okay because I've been there before, the words have already been written. Over the past few years maintaining this site, I've had some surprising insights from strangers whom I've never met, yet who know my deepest thoughts simply from having read through my journal. So, tonight, I decided it was time to do a little digging myself. And I've discovered that I'm still alive, that I've had these issues and problems and thoughts and whispers before. But what do I do with these memories and how can I learn from them to improve, advance, better-faster-stronger?