First of all, I'm not crazy.

Finding balance—I had a page on this, it was pretty good stuff, but my computer decided to automatically restart and I lost the whole damn thing. Now I’ve lost a CD—the Unforgettable Fire. It’s not my favorite album, but it’s U2, and I do love it. I have a definite idea of where it is though, in my boom-box inherited from my sister, who left for the army and left me a room small enough to be a walk-in closet, full of memories and bonsai dust and the creepy smiling stares of the Kewpie dolls our grandmother kept on a shelf opposite the bed—which was a small ship’s bunk, which my dad had slept in a generation ago—that room, and a spirit of rebellion, and a mothering job that I didn’t want and no one wanted me to have. When she lived in the room, I used to hang out there sometimes, on the floor by the chair, which you couldn’t sit on because it was covered with stuff: old boxes and toys and little keepsakes from friends, and papers, which she probably needed but forgot about, and we would talk and laugh and sometimes she would get annoyed and throw a shoe or whatever happened to be closest at me. Our grandmother always told her, was telling her to clean her room, and she never wanted to, and it was so messy; eventually she paid me five dollars to clean it for her, but my grandmother wouldn’t let me, and stood over me the entire time to make sure I did it the right way. We had a big fight, and I decided it wasn’t worth the five bucks and went outside to play. That was what I used to do, whenever I could. I’d go out the kitchen, open the porch door, leap down the stairs from the stone patio, and take the yard at a run, eating up the ground and enjoying the wind in my ears, until I hit the semi-circle of pines in the back, and, winded, slowed down to a walk. There was a space behind the pines—still is, that much hasn’t changed—about five to twelve feet wide, depending, a kind of path, unmarked, carpeted with moss and tiny grasses, more like a severely elongated, curving clearing, really, and behind that, a line of trees and brush. There were a few paths into there; the line was only five feet deep or so, but the thorns made it unpleasant enough that you really didn’t want to go around the paths. Once, my sister cut a piece out of a little maple tree growing out there—we all put our tongues to the open part, and it actually tasted pretty good. Most maples out in the woods aren’t Sugar Maples, which are the ones that yield syrup—and they taste pretty nasty, really.

There are two country CDs in my case (I found The Unforgettable Fire a little while ago and finished copying it), both more handed down from my sister. One’s Unleashed, by the infamous Toby Keith; my friend didn’t actually believe me when I told him. The other’s Come On Over by Shania Twain—again, not something you’d expect to find here. It’s not that I have anything against country; Johnny Cash is one of my favorite artists, in fact. It’s just… well, Toby Keith is… well. I don’t like him, suffice it to say. Shania Twain… eh, she just annoys me. There’s also a Dixie Chicks CD (I think), but that’s from a CD case a bunch of my friends and I found in sixth grade. I remember one friend, who had a reputation as a Good Charlotte fangirl and a punk, slipping the Britney Spears album into her binder and telling me not to tell anyone—she couldn’t risk her reputation. I still laugh at that. There’s two Good Charlotte CDs here, one from my dad, years and years ago, when he had no idea what to buy me for my birthday, except that he’d heard me mention them a few times, and the other one a copy from a CD I got for my brother, The Young and the Hopeless, which he liked for a long time and then lost. I like Good Charlotte despite myself, despite my usual tastes. Something about them really appeals to me, my tween side, the side of me that doesn’t actively hate them. I don’t know, really; my New Year’s Resolution is to not be ashamed of music anymore, because it’s cool or because it’s not cool (yes, both of those factor into shame; one, with my anarchist friends, and one, with… well, everyone else.)

It’s funny, life; living; people. Like I said, I had a long page on balance which was better than this, but it got tossed when my laptop updated. (Excuse? What’s a valid excuse?) It had a metaphor involving a bull and a goat! All this came from a bottle of Vault that I looked into as poison (which it is) and swallowed anyway. Balance, counter-balance. If my life was balanced properly, I would be out in the woods right now, doing what I should be doing. Instead… well, here I am. It’s not so bad, really; I should take a walk, there’s a friend I wanted to see today, but there’s no guarantee I’ll get to talk to him, and really I’d be better off waiting here for the clock to turn around enough. We’re going out ice-skating later, a few friends and I. I’m looking forward to it; I really don’t see them enough. I spent this past month working seven days a week, plus school, and that was… well, a mistake, to put it lightly. Balance, counter-balance, emotional equilibrium… HO. HO. HO. My spirit is twisted in knots, my emotions are all fouled up, my soul is kind of clouded… it was not a good month. Unavoidable, and I’m glad for the distractions, but I’m glad it’s over. Another week, I would’ve had to leave this whole place for a month, clear out my soul. I might be doing that anyway, soon—go out, find myself, discover some identity. I’ve needed it for a while now, once we get back to an honest winter, I think I will.