It’s almost 3:00 a.m., and I’m thinking too much.
I blog. A lot. Wonder sometimes if I have a lot to say or lead an exciting life (answered quickly, “no”) or if I’m just throwing things out there that are incredibly boring and better kept to myself. Blogging is vanity in its most flatulent form, acceptable because everyone else is talking about “me” so me can do so too.
A posting was formulating in my head relative to last Friday’s most wonderful visit by a high school best friend. The couple hours spent with her were half used with the present catching up, and half on the just-this-side of legal and hilarious escapades of two teenage girls with dreams. Pat’s younger sister was with her, and as she watched us, she remarked, “You two look exactly the same as you did back then. It’s so good to see you together again.” Well, no; we don’t look exactly the same, although we probably would with facelifts. But the joy was there, the bond that went beyond words, and the love and understanding.
But thinking about the past brings memories both good and bad. Many of the funny stories ready to be typed and shared with you led into dark corners eventually. I’m not one to turn my back on guilt and regret, preferring to accept them as price tags paid for whatever I needed or was seeking at the time, a balance of accounts paid in full. My weblog, however, isn’t a tell-all. It isn’t a memoir, and it isn’t a conscience looking for the little confessional at the back of the church.
Maybe, come the dawn, I’ll have reread the bad parts of the book and stored them back where they live. I’ll take notes of the good parts as they fly by, and bookmark them for sharing.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology