an island of such great complexity.

I ended up having a bad day. Not really. Okay, only for about a few hours...from like 1:45pm until 3:00pm. I was just cleaning, and I finally unpacked my physical, hard-bound journal that I've been keeping for almost five years. It's really just a sketchbook, and since I write smallish, I figure I'll have it until I die. My intent was for it to be found and read after I died, and it could be used as a first-hand account for history. But really, it's just kept to document my personal growth, so I don't know how that could be used for history.
I decided I'd update it, since my last entry was from July. I ended up just being brutally honest with myself, and it ended up being one of those entries that made me cry because I told myself everything that I knew, but didn't want to hear. Some things I previously typed here in my blog, but when it's on paper, it's just so much more harsh, because it can't ever be deleted.
The main point that I was trying to make was admitting that: "I am just afraid of...living" and that I'm so, "afraid that I'll actually do something with myself, and with my life...but at the same time, I really want to actually do something with, and for myself."
I didn't come up with any sort of conclusion, or ways to make change. I just ended it...probably because I'm such a fucking coward.

...and yes, I stole that title from a pavement song.