Michael... *sigh* we might as well not talk at all. I can map out our conversations in my head well enough that he doesn't even need to be there. I imagine he could probably do the same. Ouch.
Tish.... I don't know. I really don't know.
Greg... Dear god, I don't know. He confuses the living hell out of me and then turns around and makes so much sense it's like a slap in the face.
It used to be that I would write what I really thought. If it concerned others, I saw to it that they were informed.
Now I don't know what I think anymore. I don't even really know if I think anymore, or if I'm just running off auto pilot entirely and that's why this is suddenly throwing me so off-balance.
And the thoughts I do recognize, the patterns I can see, I cannot tell. I cannot explain them. My family members can see this journal. People who would be uncecessarily hurt can read it. People who do not need to bother themselves with it would. I do not want that.
This journal is the last remaining semblance of creativity I have. The private and protected posts are starting to outnumber the public ones. That cannot be a good sign.
My sketchbook is collecting dust. I am very, very glad I did not apply to any art schools. If I had gotten in somehow by the grace of god, it would have been very difficult to explain to my parents why I was writing a 'sorry, I will not be attending your university' letter to a place that had accepted me for my art - which, to their knowledge, is still a major part of my life. It still is, really, but it's hollow. Caving in. Will be gone soon.
College, if I go, will be a tremendous starting over for me. I changed midway through high school, which led to a set of several rather disagreeable situations. Where I am now makes a much better starting point than ending point.
Things to do this weekend: