It used to be an imperative, one in which a choice has been made. Now, it has become a matter of choice once again. I said I would begin a journal/diary, a written one instead of one which is online. Eventually, the thought of it intensifies but the act of doing it distances. I cannot help but dream of writing one that is close to my heart, one that I can bear it all. Ain't I foolish? How honest can I get with myself? I don't even think I can be honest with myself to pen it all down. Of course, this blog is full of truths, except that there are many times in which truths are not blogged in its entirety. Half-truths some people call them. Are half-truths still truths? I don't think so. Distorted truths are not truths anymore. So, tell me, how honest am I with myself?

That's just one point. Another point is that I tend to want to remember some but also forget some. Some things in which I think I never want to revisit again. Some things in which I myself am ashamed of what I am. Yet, there are also things that I have the courage to write it down but think that it would really be a waste of the beautiful book. Things that are edmund-related, I can write them down like the papers are endless but seriously, 10 years down the road, I would probably want to tear these pages out.

So, the book is still sitting on my table, with a photo of Angela and I, the one left over from her birthday board, bookmarked in it.