There is nothing to fear that can be named, no damnation waiting. But there are bad consequences to my lassitude. Inaction is paralysis, a milder, less painful form. To decide, to choose, the losing battle, to wake up everyday to a rehearsal of your limitations. To walk slowly, and speak only when there is the clean purpose of communication, to talk openly, honestly with both friend and foe. The unknown has been chipped away by my education, and the suggestion of murder that remains coiled in the woodsmoke of the cluster of cabins. We don't need a serial killer, fanged ghosts, aliens. The rock face of the mountain could so easily entomb us, the water of the lake will overwhelm you? You may drown.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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