February 25

Dear Diary,
I did not leave my apartment today, choosing instead to observe the world from the safety of a wooden platform. And, oh my, what a world it was. The forty-yard dash and the Wonderlic. Clinton urging us for honor and shame. A blur of daily personal responsibility. Sunlight peeking over the southern roofline of W. 90th and into my kitchen. Visitors from the world across the river. A mild awakening in the repopulated heart. In this right state of mind it is possible to believe that there is a pattern to a string of events both local and otherwise. It follows then that the pattern must mean something, not only to the world at large but to me. This should be reason for joy, but all I can muster is a nod and a pot of coffee. The joy may come yet; maybe tomorrow, maybe next year.

Some people tend to measure a sentence or a stretch of discourse against the yardstick of depression, but what I am trying to communicate has nothing to do with that. Dear reader (all three of you) -- understand that I am constantly trying to talk around things that cannot be explained, because things that can be explained by inferior minds are always at peril of becoming untrue, and I am in the business of truth. I urge you to try it as well -- there is real fulfillment, not emptiness, in discarding the desire to understand and to explain.