I want to write. I am longing for words, I am full of them, like a mother carrying an overdue child, it's time to give birth... I miss poems. I miss stories. I want to write a story that no one will read. I want to write a story and read it out loud with long pauses and dramatic catches of voice, whispered emotions to silence a crowd, thoughts that elicit giggles from those who have always wanted to think them. I want to write the kind of story that makes you think, that you have to read over again because you're not sure what you were supposed to get out of it, the kind of story you can't quite sum up or explain but it sticks with you nonetheless. I don't read enough. But I have read that story, and I want to write it.


Sometimes I feel so full of something that I just don't know how to get rid of it, I don't know how to figure out what's going on in my head... it's more than my head, it's my very soul, a tight clenching deeper than my stomach, I don't know how to make it go away. I don't know where it came from.


I want to love God but I'm not sure if I do.


I want to love my parents but I don't remember how. I want to hate them but I'm not brave enough. I want to get beyond this front, this phony pleasant curiosity, the polite exchange of goings-on. The careful bottle-and-stoppering of real thought and real emotion... and yet... I can't get real emotion out even when I want to, even when I try, it's too hard and I don't want them to be upset... I want to agree... they want me to agree... I don't know who is brainwashing whom. At some point I was making my own decisions. Am I still?


What do I think about things?


Why can't I make the sign of the cross when I pray?


Where is God in all of this?


Why does everyone read this blog? Why does everyone want this insight on me... I don't know... why do I read anyone else's? People love a good story... a true one, even better. You can't write fiction with quite as much emotion, intensity, feeling as you can write fact, at least, your version of fact. This is why the best stories have a bit of the author in them...


No one else's parents read their blog.


If they did, I wouldn't have any blogs to read.


Parents should not read most of what their children write.


The best readers are writers. That might not be true. If you're an amateur it might be.


I don't believe in birth control.


I don't always know if I believe in God. If I do then I don't know why I have such a hard time trusting him. Do I love him? I don't know.


Does God love me? I hope so, but I don't deserve it.


Who is this Jesus anyway? Do I really believe he's God?


How come Catholics and Protestants can't both be right?


I don't think I will ever live in Cazenovia again.


If Joe and I are doing things the right way then why is it so hard? Why does he feel like he's never getting anywhere? What if he doesn't pass his classes this semester?


I know a girl who wants to be married and pregnant in 5 years, whether it's her current boyfriend or not. I don't want to be like her.


Lately I wish I had more friends who are girls.


Where do you find salvation? How do you know when you are saved?


How many times have I "asked Jesus Christ into my heart"? How many times did I slam the door in his face?


How many times did I pretend to be something I'm not, so that people would continue to think I was a good person?


Why is it so hard to disagree with people face to face?


What am I supposed to do with my life? Am I really open to having it not be what I think I want?


Where is God in all of this? Have I found him yet?