november rain

here i am then, confusion confounded, a gauche but intrepid debutante in ze glitzy blogosphere. summarily seduced into sashaying my way in by avid blogging pals and savvy students egging me on even as i stumble and bumble on this enticing ramp. blinking and blinded by the light of someone else reading and reading into the inner workings of my mind. (how long does it take to feel comfortable in one's own skin in some other garb?)

hey, what ever happened to those assiduous "dear diary" decades when single lined pages stood in for a confidante and patient listener? when every entry began predictably with, "today, I ...." meandered aimlessly through " school, home, friends, mummy and papa..." and convulsed unerringly into, " feel lonely...miserable" (ho humm). when you wrote warily because you didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings with what you'd written? when you wrote in such a way that only you could truly understand what you'd written? when you wrote because you didn't want to shed tears on your cheeks, but allowed them to flood into the inner most recesses of your soul?

today, i do not want to read those diaries, i do not want anyone to read those diaries, and yet do not have the heart to throw those musty-smelling private mementoes away. they are me, in a certain age and time. they are. whatever they are worth. such vanity. and miserly possessiveness. so they remain firmly enconsed in the bedroom loft where they have been for years, along with other bric-a-brac and senseless relics from the past. We are all collectors of some sort or the other. hoarders. some of us hoard objects. some wealth. and some memories.