?'s

I was going through old blog entries today, trying to remember good stuff I've written. I have to write some fiction. Pathetically, I can only think to begin with things that have already made their way through my mind and out my fingers. The best things I feel right now that I have written, are the questions. I have written a ridiculous lot over the past year. A lot of it is scattered across the globe, or in some garbage dump in Vancouver, because it was a letter to someone. Some is here in this blog. Some is in my journal. Some is in this cheapo orange notebook i filled with thoughts too fractured or scandalous to qualify for my journal (I am not wuite convinced of the honesty of the feelings in the orange notebook...which is the reason I subconsciously left them out of the main journal in the first place...but I hang on to them). And everywhere, so many questions. Those may have been the only original thoughts I produced...and they weren't even thoughts. They were pre-thoughts. I have few answers. I have fewer every day. The better I get at asking questions, the worse I get at answering them. And yet life is carried out amidst action and decision, inertia is defeated daily. more questions, more questions. they never stop coming. i want to know all the questions in the world, and then invent more. i want every action to be pure faith, forcing me beyond the doubt...you have to doubt, but you also have to act. and what can you trust in? sorry. the answer is nothing.