I never even look at my journal anymore. I’ve almost forgotten what restraint.org looks like.

I tell myself that the purpose of a journal is to accurately reflect and convey the events and happenings of a day, a week, a month, a year. That is what it is for, that is the purpose of keeping a log. Whenever I tell myself that, I find it impossible to write, however.

It is not enough to record. A deeper reason has to be found.


Whenever I look for the ideal of a ‘perfect journal’, I always find myself returning to Brandon, and gaijin.com. Not due to a stellar layout, or any design ability on his part, but because of the way he puts his words down into sentences, one after the other. I suppose that I trap myself at times, by reading his words, because I want to make my own seem equally soulful, profound, or ‘real’, whatever that means.

I want to be a star going nova, I want what it is I feel to be understood by those few who read my words, regardless of if they’re strangers, friends, family, or uninterested parties that stumbled here via a misdirected search engine. I want to be universal, I want to be passionate.

The longer I take between entries, the more I stay away from restraint, from the web in general, I find the colour draining out of my skin. I am unhappy with the quality of my writing and my inability to design, because it seems that I am unable to create, in any sense of the word. Nothing new is coming from me. Everything is rhetoric and ‘relevant social commentary’ I’ve picked up from oversized artsy novels. Pulp trash for the enlightened.


I’m twenty-two now. I’ve made it further than I thought I ever would, at least as far as time is concerned. When you’re sixteen, twenty-two is a world away.

I am only starting to learn what that means. I am only starting to understand that I am not still sixteen. I still accidentally answer ‘sixteen’ sometimes when asked my age. A slip, but not an overly embarrassing one.


Perhaps it’s not that things are falling apart, as it appears and has appeared for quite some time. Perhaps things simply decay, and atrophy, and are constantly in a state where they appear to be rusting, if care is not taken to preserve them.

I expect every morning to be better than the night previous, because that’s the way things were when I was sixteen. It was the summer of plenty, and there were always more of whatever I needed. Friends, money, laughs, cigarettes, run-ins with authority that only served to further my awareness of my own immortality.

Things will not be better in the morning anymore. The world no longer prepares itself for me while I sleep. I am no longer nearly as important; the universe has learned to get along without my constant help.


It’s never in the mornings that the dread sets in. It’s only in the early afternoon, when the limitations of my own abilities set in, and the competition and challenges of finding full-time work present themselves. (I cannot rely on contract work any further. I do not have the dedication.)

I am not where I want to be.

And the world will not carry me there.