Discerning.

Meriwether Lewis, of 'Lewis and Clark: Expeditionnaire' fame and fortuna, kept a journal. During his lengthy bouts of depression, it's been said his journal remained without entry--though whether the reason was nothing to articulate or the thoughts best kept to himself isn't particularly clear. Allegations of suicide had sullied his name at the time, in an interesting contrast to the latest acceptance and dramatic depiction of illness and self-harm (Beautiful Mind, Sylvia).

I had originally planned on abandoning the blog in similar emo fashion, but I find myself writing more than ever in a strange contrast. My book, I mean. Thinking back, it's when most of my writing--my best, at that--happens in my relentless restlessness, physically and mentally speaking. There's something to be found when it's so dark, something imaginative that's typically there, but far more dormant than I seem to realize.

Someone very close to me once mentioned I find something to busy myself, detract my attention and focus to help the process. The silly Hawaiian was right.

Kiska oft mentions that I crack myself up with my decidedly 'impaired' (read: retarded) dark sense of humor; someone has to, I reply. Though not entirely hapless in my attempts, no doubt my verbosenessity of the next while will be cut short.

Like my Hawaiian.