Setting the way back machine for
February 24, 1993:
Well, the Romulan Ale seems to have mellowed quite well, or maybe I've just gotten used to it. It's not bad for being a chemical relative of nail-polish remover and turpentine. Wine seems to be the only alcohol I really like, oh, but I guess champagne is good, too).
I mentioned getting caught up in words in my last entry. This idea brings two thoughts to mind. The first being that this journal is a crutch, an excuse for me to continue in my phlosophizing and passive belief system, instead of going out and living what I "believe." I hide behind my journal, using words I never orignially spoke to anyone to answer current questions. It's wimping out, it's flaking out, avoiding thinking and searching myself at that moment, avoiding being put on the spot, answering with what was instead of what is. It simply doesn't work.
The second is that I hide behind words thinking they have meaning unto themselves, my own personal dictionary. I use words and definitions as excuses. I remember writing in my then "new journal" about Margaret and making-out with her, and trying to decide what to do, but also trying to define some ... measure of beauty and attractiveness through which I could explain things and classify them. I still have a detailed account of how I defined away my relationship with Jenny, using the semantics of "Love" vs. "In Love", mostly because I want to go out with Sarah. I bet I could find lots of places in my journals where this has happened.
What a difference ten years can make. I guess. Or maybe not. I'm beginning to understand why people burn their journals.