I started writing a journal...it's filled with obsessions, thoughts, fears, theories, paranoia, distorted perceptions --all relating to my distorted way of thinking...

I fall into despair.

I'm missing it all...There is a world outside of my head filled with joy and beauty. My writing can only reflect my distraught and paranoid thoughts. I want it to be filled with poetry, stories, moments of spiritual reflection, ideas about art, music, nature...

I was so engrossed in my f****d up thoughts I could barely hear the loons in the distance, the crickets' near-final song, baby birds discovering a whole world in a nearby nest tucked safe into an apple tree. the trees changing their outfits for the fall into something vivid and gawdy and then shedding their layers, naked and comatose for the dull mute of winter. I could look only briefly at the lazy puffy clouds bumping together and the sun hitting everything at twilight like a watercolor dream...

I am missing it all...