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Oct. 30th, 2004

Dear diary
Not true, is it? Because there is always the knowledge of the potential reader-over-my shoulder, so there is never the honesty there would be with a real diary. Though even there, I suppose I'd be editing for posterity, but there would be some security in the knowledge that I'd be gone before it was read.
On the other hand, if you're reading this, you've chosen to. I shouldn't have to censor myself.
I am feeling irrationally angry right now. With myself, mostly, but not entirely. Angry with a universe which lets good people get hurt and sad and ill. Angry, a little, with people I love and can't touch.
This will pass. My emotions are all over the place lately. Often, I am overtaken by joy at the smallest things, noticing the strangeness of clouds, the shapes of leaves, the stark outline of branches against the evening sky. The other day, I crouched, fascinated, watching a honey-bee painstakingly harvesting a dandelion, segment by segment. There is beauty. And even remembering it has calmed my soul.