A quarter way through my life's journey and I have come upon myself in a dark wood, for the straight way is lost...

I am reading three books, one by a local jungian analyst about midlife crises, one on my bed called the stories we live by, and one about the denial of death...

Sometimes, like today, I will look down at my hands warm and grasping and alive and imagine their inevitable decay...

I want to visit a bone church, please do not think me weird...

I wish I felt comfortable being open with my parents, particularly that I have left their religion to find my own path, but I do not want to hurt and worry them, so I lie and therefore I am a liar.

I never feel like I can adequately convey my thoughts, partially because they are an imaged intuitive whole and interconnected process, I have never fuly said one thing that I have meant and that I have tried to say.

I feel like I live in a glass house, I am almost there, you could reach out and touch me, then you hit the glass...

This, I think, will be a fruitful time, through this dark wood I shall pass into a fuller, more vibrant sense of myself--I just wish it did not hurt so.

Some girl months ago said that psychology was a real science and people did not believe that. I believe that, I wanted to say, and it is not a good thing. Science dissects, if only intellectually, and somehow always manages to kill something in the thing it dissects, the wholeness? That is the problem with psychology, it has no soul, no beating heart, no tear stained face--nothing! It is cold and unfeeling like a statue, it is dead and how silly our doctor'priests are to fawn over it, to act like it could save me!

And I still believe that I canmot be savd, ahem.